


Survival Mode

by BakerTumblings



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Angst with a Happy Ending, Being Stuck in a Dark Heavy place, Dark in the beginning but always hopeful, Happy Ending, Hints at Consideration of Suicidal Thinking, Hope, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Military Backstory, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Substance Abuse, Tags May Change, Therapy, Translation Available, dealing with depression
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-26
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:00:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26236051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BakerTumblings/pseuds/BakerTumblings
Summary: An alternate first meeting that explores the parallels of those demons that drive both John and Sherlock. Their paths will cross of course, in an unusual way, when one reaches out to the other. While the official request was unidirectional, the help, the healing, well, thereachinggoes both ways.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 133
Kudos: 122





	1. Treading Water

**Author's Note:**

> Translation into German available: [Survival Mode](https://www.fanfiktion.de/s/5fe4c8650000753e1e1c7971/1/Survival-Mode>Survival%20Mode) by [stilesohstiles](https://archiveofourown.org/users/stilesohstiles/pseuds/stilesohstiles)
> 
> (fingers crossed the links are all right). Very flattered.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternating viewpoints.
> 
> ++
> 
> Survival mode: short term, fear-based mode of thinking triggered by perceived danger. A fight-or-flight mentality that leads to attack or retreat under stress - and not communication or connection. Of the two, attack is probably the more healthy option because retreat doesn't deal with any of the baggage, the problems, or the deep-rooted issues.

Even the sigh John heard, his own, was depressing.

He didn't feel like getting up, eating, getting dressed, or dealing with anything - let alone actually leaving his bedsit, going outside, seeing Ella later. He wanted to cancel, roll over, go back to sleep, avoid everyone and everything, and maybe, just maybe, tomorrow would be better.

But it wouldn't be.

He'd been thinking it - that maybe things would improve - for a long time and it never was, never happened, never changed. He was stuck in the same rut, too cowardly to really get out and do something. Anything. Depression, he told himself, was not motivating in the least. He lacked energy to get out, to try something new, and therefore _lacked energy to get out, to try something new._ The cycle continued, unbroken. Groundhog day. Ad infinitum. Ad nauseum.

It was like drowning and not caring. He ignored the niggling thought, the knowledge he could _stop fighting and just slip beneath the waves_ , that pestered him.

No.

The inward sigh was either avoidance or indecisive, John couldn't make up his mind.

Slip beneath the waves? Not yet.

Not today anyway.

He rolled over, his back and the mattress creaking, and felt the too familiar, too fresh, still deep ache of his shoulder, the residual pain lingering too long. Angling his body to alleviate the stretch in his deltoid muscle, he snagged at his mobile only to find another disappointment. The charging cable hadn't seated correctly, again, dratted hand-me-down mobile, and the screen was dead, battery completely depleted. 

God even technology was out to get him.

Something had to give.

Unable to call and cancel his appointment, not in time anyway, he rustled himself and then growled as he swung his tired legs over the side of the bed. Even the growl, he realised, was lackluster.

Might as well go see Ella. The day was ruined anyway.

++

The craving, the need, the want - hunger - desire, seemed to sizzle and fester inside. It was a restlessness that burned inside his skin, his brain, the wiring of his synapses, his serotonin receptors all reprogrammed to drive him toward the habit that he knew was taking him over. A mutiny had been staged at his behest, his permission, and at the expense of ... according to his parents, his bloody brother, _wasting his_ _enormous potential_. He didn't care. There were physical cravings as well as the obsession, the mental energy, the draining of his motivation as his focus became most unwholesome. His reason for sitting upright was singular and compelling.

He needed, viscerally, a fix, a hit, a score. The abandoned building, his shelter for the night, was mostly quiet, and he picked up the repurposed smart phone. A cast off, probably stolen before he got his hands on it. No cellular data plan, connected only by wifi, which was plentiful if you knew where to look. But this morning, already considering a few sources and whom he was going to tap for funding, the screen stayed stubbornly, resolutely dead. The charging cable was frayed and the device had been rendered useless - hopefully temporarily - until he found a way to recharge somehow.

Briefly, he considered throwing the device in frustration against the nearest dilapidated wall. It was only the faintest measure of self-control - and the knowledge that to do so would complicate things by its absence - stopped him.

He would have to go find a place to charge his mobile. Or, a less palatable solution, find his sources in person. Those boring idiots who managed to keep their pockets full so that they in turn could pass along some to him. For a price, the hurdle he would deal with later. But might as well go in search of an abandoned charger, or bully someone into sharing. The day was ruined anyway.

++

He hated running late. He'd barely had time to boil the water and get the tea bag into his one and only travel mug before scurrying on along to his appointment.

Tea was a special thing for John, or it used to be. He still couldn't abide generic or cheap tea, choosing his favourite blends and making sure he didn't run out. Along with milk and a touch of sugar, tea used to be a very comforting beverage, an association, a reminder of better times, an echo of what used to be actually enjoyable when consumed with family or friends or comrades in the army. It wasn't as good in his hand as it was in his mind, but still, on some level, it attempted to reach down and ... stir something inside, and so he kept up with it. _Deep calls to deep_ , he occasionally acknowledged, and so he kept up with it. His one and only comfort.

Cane in hand, he paused on the kerb to take that first sip, on the short walk to his therapist, tipping slowly and gingerly so as not to scald his lip. Something went wrong that resulted in very little tea reaching his mouth and a far too large amount coming out from under the lid, the seal broken and a large crack in the threads. He glanced down, knowing he would see the drops of spilt tea traversing down the zippered front of his slightly worn, not quite warm enough winter jacket. A few drops had even managed to land squarely on his left knee and trickle down onto his boots.

Fitting. He would have snorted if he'd had the energy. As it was, he'd binned the useless, broken mug, tea remnants and all, and thought caustically about the parallel between the mug and his bloody life.

Broken. And useless.

And out to get him.

He managed to give himself an internal, mental shake. He needed quite expeditiously to tamp down on the unease, the negativity, the ... darkness inside before going to talk to Ella. He would hide it, shove it away, bury it, keep it under wraps. The last thing he needed was for his therapist to discover the depths of the despair within him.

Not today.

++

The sizzle and tingle of withdrawal, of the search for the next hit, ebbed and flowed. Addiction for him was like tides of want and longing that built and crested with an all-consuming loud demand that eventually, ultimately crashed down, dissipating into small bubbles that festered and simmered until the next wave. In moments of introspection he couldn't decide which extreme he hated most.

Scrolling slowly, Sherlock's thumb trembled and hovered over Mycroft's name in his contact list. He could ask for money outright, for groceries or something. He thought about asking for rent money even though he wasn't really staying anywhere and owed no rent. He thought about giving some sob story or other about meeting someone down on his luck and asking for assistance. Useless, really. Mycroft would see right through all of it and then belittle him mercilessly for the lie and the behaviour.

And he would certainly say no if Sherlock truthfully asked for money with which to buy drugs. He may, however, admire the bold honesty of the request even as he triangulated his position from the location of his mobile and sent out emergency services to try to round him up again. Not bloody likely.

He pocketed the partially charged mobile, changing his mind. The last thing he needed was for his brother to discover the extent of the desperation within him.

Not today.

++

John'd managed to squeak through the clinical hour with Ella and was relieved at the thought of leaving for the week when she'd asked to see him again for a follow-up in two or three days. So much for his acting skills or lack thereof. He'd paused, hesitated and let his frowned brows as the question - why? - and she'd simply given him a kind, compassionate look, a hair-breadths shy of pitying smile. Her voice was more serious than he'd heard it before, her eyes searching his. "I just get the feeling that it would be wise, don't you agree?"

He'd blinked hard but said little, clenching his jaw as he let her make the appointment.

At the doorway, she'd joined him to press a business card into his hand. On it was her mobile number. "Use this if you have to."

His hollow laugh, that awkward, self-deprecating thin snort of air was quickly followed with a question. "Christ, is it that bad?"

"No, it's really not. You're stronger than you think you are."

John couldn't stop the sigh, and added the conjunction as he knew he probably didn't want to hear the rest. "But."

Her smile was genuinely kind this time. "But it gets a little dark sometimes before the dawn. These transitions are understandably hard. But you're doing well." A pat on the arm, a reassuring smile. "See you on Thursday."

He wondered as the door closed softly behind him how much lower he could go.

++

Sherlock ducked into a store front when the back of his neck prickled at the suspicion that he was being watched. Or followed. The traffic slowly wound past as he meandered the shelves with the occasional, discrete consideration of any specific cars that might have slowed inappropriately. The list was growing of those to watch out for - police vehicles certainly, and the long black sedans with tinted windows were also to be avoided if possible. But there were others now, nondescript, drivers in sunglasses, sometimes they turned away as he caught sight of them. A Maserati, sleek gray, shiny rims, ambled past, the driver appearing focused on the road and the mobile. A burning, churning ache in his gut pressed him forward, and he gave the store a casual stroll before exiting, turning the other direction, his quest only mildly delayed.

One of the alleys bode a bit of promise, an area known for these kinds of exchanges, a few people lingering about. He cleared his throat as he saw a few random, isolated, unfamiliar young adults in varying stages of scruff, coats zipped, pockets, slouchy hats, suspiciously lurking, an agenda. Eyes lifted to his in curiosity, a silent exchange, a cautionary checking out the scene, the body language, the intent. They'd only taken a few steps toward each other when the stranger's gaze drifted over Sherlock's shoulder in mild alarm as something distracted him. With surprising agility, the man turned tail and disappeared with quick strides in the opposite direction. Sherlock knew before even turning around that there would be a dark sedan pulled to the kerb, driver standing, glaring, disapproving. Threatening.

There was.

"Piss off," he said, his voice too quiet to be specifically audible over the street noise, and he began walking himself, the opposite direction of the way the car was driving. The time required to turn around would buy him his escape.

Bloody Mycroft. He sighed, feeling more acutely the middle stages of withdrawal, of need, and he identified the niggling doubts of whether it was all worth it, the spiral of annoyance, of pointless boredom, the never-ending cycle of addiction. Tamping down on the particularly dark sensations, the telltale _I don't give a buggering fuck-all_ , the high risk-taking behaviour, the lack of personal concern, Sherlock sighed again. He knew that the last thing he needed was for his brother to find out exactly how low he was in the process of sinking.

++

John stood long minutes in front of his sparse, pathetic refrigerator in his sparse, pathetic flat, thinking to himself that he really wasn't hungry. He sighed and closed the door, whispering to no one in particular, "What's the point."

He noticed it was not a question but rather, a somber phrase.

It felt more like a benediction.

++

Sherlock eventually found what he needed, tucked into a secluded spot to snort what he'd just bought, ignoring the pain of inflamed nostrils and perpetual drip down the back of his throat. The effects peaked early - relief, finally, blessedly - quickly, and he zoned off, only to awaken a bit later to a badge-carrying officer shouting something inane and tapping at his foot. "Piss off," he grumbled but would have been surprised that none of the words were clear. 

The officer mumbled something of his own into his radio, Sherlock couldn't tell as his ears were buzzing some, his vision blurred and shaky. "Come on, you." There was tugging and lifting, and Sherlock was surprised that the officer had split into two and there was a waiting car, lights flashing. He considered shaking them off, running away and didn't think for a moment that he couldn't do it if he wanted. Instead, he thought that he was too tired to argue, to escape. "What's the point." The garbled words were nonsensical.

One foot tripped over nothing, his legs giving out, and the person at his elbow leaned in, holding him upright while the other officer opened the door to the back of the panda car. "Watch your head."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't promise this won't get a little darker, a little more desperate, a little more fragile.
> 
> The parallels of each man, each _hurting_ man, will become clearer in the next chapters. I think John's going to hit bottom before Sherlock does.
> 
> I have a driving need, myself, to explore the hurts and futility of this season of life. And to pull from it the tender beginnings of HOPE.
> 
> ++
> 
> Addiction. Depression. Be safe, be well. Reach out if you identify with where either situation becomes dangerous. Many resources exist - help is available.
> 
> ++
> 
> "Deep calls to deep in the roar of your waterfalls; all your waves and breakers have swept over me." Ps 42:7  
> I think the psalmist means that despite the gravity of an overwhelming situation, we sometimes have to take a harder look to find hope. Because it is there, deep inside, waiting to be found and nourished. If we are patient, there is deliverance to be found: family, friend, or casual stranger, especially if they know what it’s like to be barely clinging to the end of the rope.


	2. Tiresome Bad Tidings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John's military career goes up in smoke and his civilian career is in question, if not in _actual_ jeopardy.
> 
> Sherlock's brother grows concerned over alarming behaviour patterns.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The piece is titled Survival Mode for a reason. Survival mode: short term, fear-based mode of thinking triggered by perceived danger. A fight-or-flight mentality that leads to attack or retreat under stress - and not communication or connection. Of the two, attack is probably the more healthy option whereas retreat doesn't deal with any of the baggage, the problems, or the deep-rooted issues. It just _festers._
> 
> This chapter is a little bit of back-story.

There had been catastrophic noise, the sensation of falling, of being blown off his feet - which he would later realise was literal - followed by rapidly declining awareness, of his eyes closing, of exhaling. Of drifting away as the light dimmed from the outside in, a closing of the tunnel of sensation as the pain grew more distant, the throbbing of his shoulder wound ebbing, trickling, warm blood with each heart beat, each systole, forcing a bit more volume through the gaping wound in his shoulder.

The inhaling he was next aware of was quite different - pain, smells, a high level of background noise, people talking, moving, the sensation of nausea. There was something over his face and he experienced quite a bit of confusion until he recalled the burst of gunfire catching them all, he and his unit, unawares. The acrid, chemical plastic smell was unpleasant and he heard a groan that echoed back in his ears as he turned his head to escape it. When he was unable, he tried to reach up with his dominant hand only to find it was not only exquisitely painful but anchored across his waist, preventing all movement.

Kind eyes appeared in his field of vision. "Captain. I'm glad you're awake. You're okay. We're getting you ready for surgery. Stop the bleeding, okay? Shouldn't have to wait much longer."

More kind eyes, older, crinkles at the edges appeared in his field of vision. "I'm your surgeon today, Lt. Col. Gallagher. Rest easy. Some repair work, foreign body removal, exploratory into the joint." He stopped, trying to assess comprehension, and waited. "You understand?"

Blinking several times as if that would clear his mental capacity, John lay there not processing well. "My squad?" His voice, raspy and uneven, was even more distorted under the oxygen mask he wore.

"We'll find out for you." Even in his current fog, John recognised the lie, that medical speak for 'we know but we're not telling you' and let his eyes close to unsuccessfully block out the bad news. "One thing at a time, okay, and we'll get started soon. Some nice general anaesthesia for you, a little nap, some hospital time ahead of you. You're just outside of Kabul." John nodded by rote, wondering which of his comrades had fallen, feeling the ache and burn in his chest as he fought down the emotion. "Do you have any questions?" At this John opened his eyes to find the surgeon backpedaling, remembering the question John had asked, about his buddies. "I mean, any _other_ questions?"

"No." The surgeon offered a brief touch, his hand resting on John's unaffected, uninjured arm and he clearly would be moving along. Except that John spoke again. "Hey. Do a good job?" The man hesitated then smiled warmly as he nodded, and with a grimace John added, "It's just, I'm their doc. They'll be needing me."

The surgeon lingered just a bit, taking in the room, the men waiting, the nurses and medics meeting needs, giving pre-op medications, assuring IV lines were patent, keeping order within the chaos. "We'll see if we can move things along here." Their eyes locked, and John could easily read the non-answer, the bad news, the deliberate deflection.

When John awoke in recovery, throat sore from intubation and shaking as he emerged from the grasp of anaesthesia, he recalled the question but did not ask again. Acute spasms of pain in his shoulder kept him fairly distracted, where every move, cough, or shift reminded him that every body part was connected to every other. Just like his unit.

++

Triage had grown to be a well-oiled machine, intake, tags, blood products, standing orders, a minimal phrase such as "head of the line" kicked up the process a bit as each person knew their role. John had usually scanned the more serious of the serious injuries, headed off to scrub while preparations were anticipated, patients prepped, cleaned, medicated, and readied. He'd learned quite efficiently however, to listen to the medic or the RN who truly only needed to draw his attention to one of the others - an ominous feeling, a bad vital sign, a lab result, sometimes only gut instinct. They trusted each other, they relied on each other. Those gut instincts, this team, after working together so long, were usually spot on.

Occasionally, temporarily, they argued, fought, fussed, and didn't speak. They were family. It was expected.

When bad news came from home, it was to each other that bore some of the strain, the worry. There was the occasional illness, or hangover, or injury. Homesick or lonely. One of them now and again threw a somewhat understandable temper tantrum, and they all waited it out, forgave much with an offer of a beer or a game of catch or a sharing of news or internet access. When one of them had been wronged, there was unwavering support, offers of retaliation - and although nothing ever came of it, the camaraderie was quickly deepening, strengthening, becoming bonded, close-knit.

When one of them hurt, the rest shared it, lightened the load. When they left the base on a mission or an errand or a project, the rest had their backs. And deep down, they knew it was a special thing, an unusual pleasure, to be savoured and protected. They also knew but didn't acknowledge that it would not be forever. One of them would get shipped home, or transferred, or promoted. But while they had it, it was a very good thing.

++

Post op was only supposed to be a few hours, to stabilise, wake up from anaesthesia, receive pain meds if needed, to meet certain goals, and be sent to another ward. John's post op experience was typical - "take some deep breaths now" and "this pain medicine might make you a wee groggy" - and he moved through the process without incident.

It was easy enough, later, to find out from one of the nurses who attended him overnight, that he'd been the sole survivor of the ambush, the attack. Although he knew it was likely his own disordered thinking, it occurred to him that he'd been taken out of the action and as a result, unable to help, unable to render aid, unable to save even one of the men in his squad who'd depended on him. Who'd trusted him to take care of them.

The news over the next grueling days and weeks of physio, of rehab, of being shipped farther and farther from his deployment, his unit, his mission, his calling, his _tribe_ , and moved him closer to administration, out of the action. The messages went from uncertain to bad to hopeless.

"We'll see. It's too early."

"The swelling _seems_ to be getting a little better; hopefully the nerves will recover."

"It'll just take time, Captain."

"I'll just take more time."

"The physical therapist is recommending long-term therapy. And I need to tell you that the recommendation has been filed. They're pulling you from active duty."

"The therapist indicates that you performing surgery again seems unlikely," and later the sentence finished with, "performing surgery is going to be out of the question." The apology that followed, although heartfelt, was achingly hollow.

"Have you given any consideration to perhaps a civilian medical desk job?"

"Do you have thoughts of lodging? We'll be shipping you back to England next week."

"Here's the form to indicate where to send your pension checks. Sign here on this honourable medical discharge form."

"Thank you for your service, Dr. Watson. Best of wishes as you continue to recover."

No one really noticed that John almost never initiated conversation, that he would respond with less and less animation. He'd pinned much of his life, his future, his career, his short and long term plans, on being Captain Watson, MD, Army Surgeon. Now that those credentials were altering on every front, he felt lost, adrift, and unsettled.

He set his bag down in the new bedsit, all he could afford. It was as drab and cold as most of his thoughts.

He was tired. Bone-weary, head to toe, bloody tired.

++

The mobile had rung many times over the years, policemen and other authorities and college deans and substance abuse specialists, letting him know about some sort of unpleasant brotherly update about his oft unpleasant brother. It ranged from overdosed again to passed out somewhere to denies doing anything but found with a bad crowd to his tox screen is all lit up. They offered recommendations such as inpatient, outpatient, partial programmes, rehab, or substance monitoring plans. He listened, often with more silence than a verbal response, knowing that no one understood Sherlock's challenges, issues, pressures, or his innate drive away from being bored, even if it meant unsafe decisions or poor choices.

While he comprehended Sherlock to a degree, he had little control over him and it seemed even less influence.

This latest call from the police "come get him at the precinct" and he was stuck in a small waiting room while one of the officers went and brought Sherlock out to him to be taken home. He'd had to sign papers that detailed drug testing schedules and some sort of probation, where he needed to check in with an assigned officer periodically. He would be expected at that next meeting to detail a plan and to stay clean. There were dire consequences described but Mycroft didn't hang high hopes on any of them. They'd never had an impact before.

He was watching the doorway when Sherlock appeared, somewhat subdued, along with the policeman.

"Sherlock," he said, rising to his feet.

The quiet gaze that met him was one of cool appraisal, of annoyance, and a surprising lack of energy. "Here are your things," the officer told him, handing over his long coat and his wallet. "Do you have any questions about when you need to contact your probation coordinator?"

"I'm fairly certain a trained monkey could call the provided number on the day your inane paperwork specifies."

"Do you understand what happens, what can happen, if you don't follow all of these instructions?"

Mycroft watched him carefully as he nodded, letting his eyes drift closed in docile acquiescence, but he wasn't buying the subdued demeanor one iota.

"Have a good day, then. Stay out of trouble."

The brothers Holmes all too soon were alone outside the building. Mycroft tilted his head, spoke down his intentionally chosen words. "How droll of you, getting picked up for something so pedestrian."

"You've put on a few pounds."

"Which is hardly illegal in comparison to what you've been up to."

"I fail to see why this is any of your business."

"It becomes my business when these legal entities need someone to come collect you." He hesitated only a moment before letting some truth seep into the discussion. "Apparently these workers find you worthy of bettering yourself. They would like you to clean up your act before something worse happens."

"Pointless. I'm not worth it. They should go find someone who ..."

"Sherlock, stop it. You'll feel better once you've slept this off, emerged from this ... crash or whatever explains your malaise." A car had arrived, and Mycroft prompted Sherlock inside before joining him. "I dare say you should endeavor to engage in other hobbies that don't get you in trouble."

There was a slow blink in return, and Sherlock sighed as he turned away from his brother, his ride, his rescuer for the evening. Tipping his head against the window, he closed his eyes again, blew out a breath. "Go away."

"How many did you get this time?" Mycroft let the question hang and it took Sherlock a few moments before he actually heard and understood the question.

Without otherwise moving, Sherlock's mouth dipped into a half smile. "Two." He reached inside his coat, pulled out two detective badges.

"You're slipping."

"I know. It wasn't even fun." With a sigh, he drew up his legs, let the roll of the car and the sounds lull him to a less boring place, the temporary escape of sleeping. Or if not, he knew, the appearance of it and some non-responsiveness would at least get his wearying brother to shut up. 

He was just ... tired of it all.

Tired.


	3. Envious

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If you're going through hell, keep going. - Winston Churchill
> 
> Wise man, he was.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So when you've hit rock bottom, the only direction left to go is _up._
> 
> TW: dark themes, dark thoughts, thinking about suicide. Please proceed carefully if these may be upsetting for you. But I do promise you that it will be okay, they will be okay, and there are times for all of us that it is out of the dark places that hope begins to sprout.

The insomnia had grown to epic proportions, the middle of the night being an endless, interminable pit of torture. Even thinking about trying to lie down, to close his eyes, to rest, ended up with his mind whirling and his heart racing. In bed, it was worse: his head ached, his shoulder throbbed, and he rolled over again. And again. And again. Pillow adjustment, covers off, covers on, slow deep breathing, counting bloody sheep, guided imagery seemed pointless in that nothing helped, nothing worked. Flip, flip, flip. Sigh, swallow. Deeper sigh.

He couldn't get the words, the thoughts, the news out of his mind. There'd been a text message, a group text, sent by a former army buddy. It was meant to be benign, informative, an FYI type of thing. Probably for everyone else, it was exactly that. The sad breaking of news.

But not for John.

For John, it was pulling the pin out of the grenade, lobbing it over, and then abandoning him to his own inability to pick up the figurative pieces. Because he felt utterly ... destroyed by it. He was lost.

His service weapon was across the room in the drawer. It might as well have had a strong magnetic pull on him. And he might as well have been wearing a suit of armour, the attraction was that strong.

_I'm here, remember me? How I fit in your hand? The power, the thrill?_

Blink, blink, the time on his mobile seemed at a standstill. It was pitch dark and now and again his sleep-deprived mind wondered if his eyes were open or shut, it was that dark, and he was that rattled.

**Hey just wanted to make sure you'd heard. Remember Ryan from the 115th? Here is the link to his obituary. Services are private but maybe we could get together, raise a glass in his memory?**

A few people had chimed in that they were out of town, or living elsewhere, or a simple "so sad" in response.

Ryan had been one of the corpsmen in his unit, a hard worker, known and loved by everyone. He'd had his own struggles with mental health, living large, living loud, who occasionally alternated with bouts of down days, of depression. They'd ended up shipping him out of the combat zone, and John'd lost touch. The obituary vaguely cited his inner battle with depression, made a reference to a car accident, and asked for donations in his honour to the Wounded Warrior Project.

John put the pieces together and knew, beyond the shadow of a doubt, it hadn't been an accident. He knew.

John felt bad for him, that the desperation had won. That he'd given up and then given in. And even as he began to mourn the loss, deep down, he could completely understand it.

And now he lay awake, sleepless, wondering about the fragility of life and if anyone had reached out to his former mate. How lonely, isolated, despairing had he been? He wondered if things were different, if the names were changed, if there would be a group text about him if something ... _happened._

It was all sobering, this ridiculous musing about a personal connection that wasn't going to happen. He imagined several fictional responses. "So sad." Or maybe "He never recovered, did he?" Or worse, "The name is familiar, but I can't place him." "I heard he was alone."

How lonely and isolating and despairing was he himself feeling now?

The drawer of his rickety desk was still shut, the handle slightly crooked, the contents within beckoning. Drawing. Summoning.

He got up, his bare feet cool on the threadbare carpet. The desk loomed, his skin tingled as he got closer, and from the desktop he picked up the business card Ella'd pressed into his hand - _"use this if you have to"_ \- turning it over. End over end. Front. Back. Front. Back. Flip. Flip. Flip.

He'd placed it intentionally on the desk for the proximity to that other thing.

Resolutely, he opened the drawer, the dark metallic gleam visible in the depths, the finality - please, please, _please._

Carefully, he found an object in his hand, pressed a few buttons, raised it up toward his ear.

He nearly disconnected, immediately, and then with each ring until one was cut short. On the other end, a familiar woman's voice, deeper than usual given the late hour, the sleep she'd been roused from. Her words clear, slow, her diction hesitant. "Hello?"

"Sorry for the late ring, Ella, it's John." Absurdly, he wondered if he needed to clarify. "John Watson."

"Hi, of course, yes, John." There was a rustling, a repositioning, a breath. "I'm glad you called."

"I doubt that," he murmured.

The tears started to flow.

++

Mycroft huffed again, sighed, crossed one ankle over the other as he sat in the hard chair amidst machinery that clicked, whirred, beeped, and made other annoying sounds of functioning. It aggravated him that whatever engineers had designed said medical equipment didn't do a better job insulating them. Realising the blame-shifting, he eyed the unconscious form of his brother in the bed. Again. Restrained, intubated, laying there. They hadn't even needed to start any sedation, not yet, the nurse had said, such was the level of self-poisoning this time. He was too affected by whatever choice of substances to fight the treatments, the uncomfortable therapies. A tube draining bilious green resided in one side of his nose, a clear, thick breathing tube out the corner of his mouth - his drooling mouth, Mycroft thought with distaste, a urine-filled tube led to a bedside drainage bag that he didn't care to consider any further than that. He'd been so profoundly hypotensive that there was a central line out the side of his neck.

The doctor had hedged as he'd updated him, using words like "possible hypoxic brain injury" and "encephalopathic related to ingestion of toxins" but cautioned a few separate times in the course of conversation, that it was too soon to tell, that they would have to wait and see, that Sherlock's youth was in his favour.

It had begun like it had many other times. "This is Sergeant O'Boyle, calling from the Westminster precinct." Background noise included an echo-y rasp, a phone line beeping, and the muffled sound of traffic. "I'm looking for Mr. Mycroft Holmes."

"Speaking."

"You have a brother, Sherlock Holmes?"

"Yes." 

"I got your name from prior records. I'm sorry to inform you he's just been dispatched by ambulance to Barts A&E."

A faint huff, an accidental slipping of a frustrating editorial comment. "Again." He wished the word could be retracted. "I'm sorry, please go on."

"It's bad this time. I think you should be aware ..." The details were the same. The details were never the same. In the end, it didn't matter. Mycroft rose, dressed, and descended upon the ICU to hold yet another vigil at his brother's bedside.

The nurses, case managers, physicians, and respiratory therapists gave him periodic targeted updates throughout the day. He sat through a few shift changes, the hand-off neuro exams that the nurses did together, went home briefly to sleep only at their urging, and returned to do it again. He vacillated between worry that Sherlock had finally done it to completion this time and anger that he'd done it again. From the vantage point of the uncomfortable plastic chair, he seethed that this was the last time, whatever it took and whatever that meant was yet to be determined, but this was it. The last time. _Do you hear me, Sherlock?_ he mused in the direction of the bed, _this is the last time._

The psychiatrist stopped in, promised to return when a visit would actually have some meaning, once Sherlock had been liberated from the ventilator and could answer questions, but he did give Mycroft a bit more than a cursory glance and slowed his steps, then proceeded to have a seat.

"So you've unfortunately been here before with him. How are you holding up, okay?"

"To a certain degree, yes." He sat a bit taller in the chair, wondering about the impetus for the question. "Perhaps this time he'll pay attention. Get help to stay clean."

"You've been dealing with this for ...?"

"Years." Mycroft managed to hold his own under the doctor's studious manner, the way his eyes seemed to be looking intently at him. Through him. "I'll be requesting, when it's time, the names of some rehab facilities to choose from. Perhaps one that deals with recalcitrant, refractory clients ..."

"You know this is not your problem to solve directly. This is Sherlock's."

Mycroft was instantly and pervasively annoyed. "I see. And yet it falls to me each time? If not me, then to whom?" He could see that the doctor was poised to answer the question but he interjected first. "Tell me, doctor, do you have a younger brother? One that you've helped raise, one that has a genius IQ and that is so wholly misunderstood by people who mean well but ..."

"Whoa, back up a moment. I didn't say anything about you helping him. Or not helping him. He needs your support, to be certain. But the problem is his, and until he appreciates that, is motivated from within to make some serious changes, nothing you provide ..."

Interrupting again, Mycroft wanted to stand and throw this ignoramus from Sherlock's bedside. "Do you know what this feels like? Do you have a younger brother?" The repeat question did actually stop the physician from talking.

"No I do not." His eyes were kind as he answered, and he sensed the moment was for Mycroft, to share, to vent, to unload, and so he kept quiet.

"I envy you. I'm sure you have a lot of book knowledge, and I'm given to understand you are a skilled psychiatrist. But until you walk this personally, do not think for a moment that you have any right to tell me how to handle the uniqueness of _this patient_ at _this_ time."

"Mr. Holmes, I apologise if we somehow got off on the wrong foot. I assure you that you and I will work together to devise a few treatment options, in a few days when he is more awake and involved. But you and I can make as many plans as we want, but the only successful one will be the one that Sherlock agrees with." He gentled, his eye contact kind. "I know you have been his safety net for a long time. But perhaps this time, he needs to experience some of the consequence." At Mycroft's tilt of his head, acknowledging the comment, the man continued. "It is not an easy road, for either of you."

Mycroft settled then, hearing the message and understanding quite clearly that they were all on the same side. Dipping his head briefly, kindly, he breathed out silently. "Thank you." At the man's assurance, his reaction, his caring, Mycroft finally felt some of the tension leave his shoulders.

++

Ella had rescheduled her day, John knew it, to accommodate his early visit. They'd chatted briefly on the phone and she refused to hang up, to end the call, until he'd contracted for safety. Oh, she didn't use those terms, but he was familiar enough with them to recognise it.

"So," she'd finally asked, trying to be as casual as possible, her hands were in her lap, her voice calm, "what happened that it got so bad last night?" And he'd related with near emotionless words, the loss of an army buddy, the knowledge of his service weapon, the encompassing darkness no matter the time of day.

"I'm sorry about your friend."

"We weren't that close or anything. Just hearing that was ..." and he let his words trail off.

Ella leaned forward. "Are you a little jealous of him?" Sharply, John looked up at her, a little alarmed, a little confused. "That his struggles are over?"

Blink. Blink. Inside his mind he could hear the caution, don't answer that, don't answer that, _for gods sake don't answer that._

The silence that hung in the room started off heavy. And then John realised that his not answering the question had probably just answered the question. He glanced at her, couldn't maintain eye contact, then looked away blinking quickly a few times, trying to hold in the emotion, shuttering it safely inside. His wavering breath echoed loudly despite the upholstery, the drapes, the carpet in the office.

"Calling me at that moment was a huge step, John, and it tells me many things. Good things. First, you've not given up. It lets me know that you're ready to knuckle down and do something about it." She'd lowered her voice to almost a whisper to make her point and waited until he did look at her with moist eyes and a heavy exhale. At her nod, making sure he was engaged, he closed his eyes briefly.

"You're sure? About the giving up part, because ..." With a trembling voice he trailed off.

"You haven't, I'm sure of it. The same strength that carried you through hard times before is ... " and she leaned forward to touch his arm "... just under the surface here. You're at the point, I think, where we can talk about how to proceed. Some practical things that will help you, okay?"

"Maybe."

Softly, she snorted in surprise as she appreciated the honesty of his answer. "Maybe?"

"Right now, I'm just so tired. Too tired to be held to anything I agree to. Too tired to get up." His eyes were heavy, getting heavier, the weight of his situation sapping all strength from his body. And it showed.

She stood up, smiling, fond, checking discreetly for the time. "My office mate is out for the morning. I'm taking my next patient into _her_ office, and you're being gifted a forty-five minute nap here in the luxury accommodations of my couch. We do that from time to time, no worries, okay?" His smile was sad, exhausted. "Right after, I'll be back, we'll finish up here, and make another appointment." John's eyes were already closed, and from somewhere, Ella produced a throw to tuck over him, letting her hand rest lightly over his arm for a moment. He nuzzled into the sensation of the blanket under his chin, the warmth at his neck insular over him, comforting and tender. She dimmed the lights, and ghosted away.

++

Harry Watson glanced at the refrigerator, where miscellaneous menus were stuck on with magnets, her calendar (a month behind as she didn't pay it any mind), a grocery list, a photo of her brother in uniform, and a sheet of postage stamps. With a tremulous finger, she straightened John's picture, thinking to herself that one day she'd give him a call. He wasn't too far away any longer, he'd said, and that he'd suffered a minor injury but was being discharged, had been back in London area for a few weeks now. It rankled her - saddened her, actually, as she looked at the picture again - knowing how much John had loved his calling, the military options, the passion he'd told her about. She'd been so proud of him, and still was, but put off calling.

She wanted to call. She didn't want to call. She felt obligated - but she didn't reach for the phone, choosing instead to tidy the kitchen as a means to distract her guilty thoughts.

She just didn't know how to handle him, what to say to him, knowing he must be so very disappointed. Next week, she thought. I'll reach out next week.

++

The breathing tube had come out, and Sherlock was quickly downgraded to another area of the hospital, the other tubes and lines being removed, and he was starting to whinge about getting out.

Mycroft stood nearby, his gaze somber, wishing things were not so ... awkward. "Sorry to disappoint you, brother mine, but your next stop from here is an inpatient setting, where you can hopefully learn some coping skills that do not involve mind-altering substances."

"No thanks."

"You may very well be involuntarily sectioned if you do not agree."

"Pass. Make it go away. I'm fine, I know what I'm doing."

Oh, Mycroft yearned to lean in on that, and he wanted to yell back, to respond with the anger and emotion that he held in check. "I disagree. I think you've given up and you no longer care about the outcome here."

Sherlock closed his eyes, swallowed hard over the sore throat from the recent endotracheal tube, and turned his head away. He considered telling Mycroft to get the hell out but opted not to engage at all. The silent treatment lasted approximately eight minutes before Mycroft gestured skyward in a minimal but rare display of frustration and left the room.

Sherlock was not unhappy. He truly was sick of it, fed up, and bone-weary tired. The nurse came in a brief moment later, eying the equipment and his skin and checking to see if he was awake. "Was that your brother?" At her question, Sherlock tuned her out, ignoring the few, well-meaning, polite - _boring, impertinent, none of your business, leave me the fuck alone_ \- questions. "Well, I'll be back in a bit. I'm glad you had a visitor anyway. He certainly seems to care ..."

"Get out," he breathed, slowly and emphatically, interrupting her statement.

Smiling resolutely, she made sure the patient call was next to him in the bed. Then, with a kinder smile than he knew he deserved, she tucked the lightweight blanket up over his shoulder, letting her hand rest lightly over his arm as she did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It can be hard to realistically identify the people who do truly care about you when your perspective is so limited by whatever problems are plaguing you at the time. Both John and Sherlock in this chapter have people who care, who would like to reach out, or who do manage it, and are having trouble seeing it.
> 
> This piece will begin to get better for John from this chapter on, and Sherlock in the next one is going to have his come to Jesus moment of shock where his brother fails to rescue him (although indirectly, of course Mycroft is waiting and watching nearby).
> 
> ++
> 
> It's like after a meal, hang on to your fork. Good things - along with dessert - are coming.
> 
> ++
> 
> So if someone comes to mind whom you know is going through a rough patch and you're uncertain about reaching out, send the text, make the phone call, write the card, [leave the AO3 comment], or otherwise make yourself available if you can. Little things can and do mean a lot to the hurting. It is also perfectly acceptable to say "there are no words" and "I have no idea what to say to you, can I sit here with you for a minute?"


	4. Heavy Moments and Hard Choices

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Things are looking up for John.
> 
> Sherlock, not so much. Not yet.
> 
> Gee, I wonder if John just might have a **small role** in helping Sherlock get things back in order.
> 
> Hang in there, dear readers. Almost time.

"We're going to chat about more specifics next time. But until then, I do have some homework for you." Ella had finished up with her other patient, returned to John to awaken him, and was ready to send him on his way.

"All right."

"First, reach out to two other people. Family, friend, whomever. Don't share anything more than what you're comfortable, but see if you can schedule a quick, casual, meet up. Coffee, lunch, whatever." Glancing at him until he nodded, she then held her pencil over his open file. "So, who are you going to call?"

His smirk was in realisation that she knew he was considering giving token agreement then skating by this assignment. "Mike. Med school buddy." His brow furrowed, knowing Mike would likely be busy. But the phone call was the point which was ... okay. "And my sister, I guess." _She'll be busy too._

"All right." Ella'd written the names down. "So, one last suggestion. I would guess your flat is ... given your military background and recent relocation history ... fairly sparse?"

"You could say that." John would have agreed with cold, bleak, bare, any number of adjectives.

"Uncluttered?"

Impersonal. Barren. "To a fault."

Smiling, she closed the file. "Sometimes I ask my clients to choose one room, make it orderly. To put everything away, give the mind space to ... rest. To think, and to regain control. I have the opposite assignment for you. Add something. There are a few stores between here and home, stop in, choose something unique. It can be completely frivolous, something small is fine, not expensive, but something that is just for you. Something that gives you a bit of a lift, just looking at it." John tried unsuccessfully to avoid rolling his eyes, but she noticed anyway. "No, I'm being serious. It can be a flower, a favourite snack even -"

"A snack?"

"Don't eat it right away. Yes, get some knick-knack from a consignment shoppe if you must. Don't spend a lot."

"Good, because you know there's very little in the budget for that."

"I understand. Then find someone you know, either of those friends, ask to borrow something for a little while. Set it out somewhere. The point is to find something to look at other than drab open spaces. Give your mind something to appreciate." Both of them stood, knowing it was time to move John along, end the appointment. The brief, in-office nap had actually helped him, and he was feeling less exhausted than when he'd arrived. "Are you at least willing to consider it?"

"I'll try."

"Call me if you need," she said in parting. There was an intensity there, a serious nature of the request.

"I will. I feel a little ... better." His eyes were somewhere between sad and grateful. "Thank you."

"It took great courage to call earlier." She leaned toward him until he acknowledged her comment with a smile, nod, swallow and then added, "I'm proud of you."

Her words echoed in his head as he did in fact do a little shopping on the way home. Later, he ate a small lunch while looking at the new accessory to his small table: a ridiculous statue of an upright, leggy frog playing the violin.

++

Leaving his PA and his driver kerbside, Mycroft sighed as he set foot inside one of the places he knew Sherlock slept from time to time. At his arrival, the few people that had been in the building had quickly scattered out the back doors in alarm. Much of the detritus was meager belongings - clothing, a few books, random bedding, and stashes of food. He recognised only one thing as belonging to his brother, a long, threadbare coat that was missing buttons. The lining was torn, there were stains, and it was many years out of date.

He picked it up with a sad air about him, wondering if Sherlock would remain beneath his radar, his monitoring, on a more permanent basis. He'd carried the coat along with him - nostalgic perhaps - and was exiting the building when he noticed the presence of a young man watching him quietly.

"That's not yours."

"No. It belongs to my brother. Have you seen him?"

A shake of his head, no.

"Will you tell him I was here, if you see him?" Mycroft tamped down on the feeling of sadness at not having heard from Sherlock in a number of weeks. "That I was looking for him."

The man's chin lifted, and Mycroft could see that he wasn't well, that he was shaky, pale, and jittery. "If the price is right, I can maybe find him for you."

Briefly, Mycroft was tempted to reach into his pocket, pull out a few notes. He considered that helping someone took many forms, that to be someone's safety net - or cash - was not always in their best interests. Moreso, he doubted this man could find Sherlock when CCTV and some others in his realm couldn't. "Not today."

The man's lips went down in annoyance.

"But if you do happen to see him, and want to let him know I have his coat, feel free." Mycroft exited the building, thought perhaps he heard a muttering about nothing being free, but kept moving.

The coat ended up tucked into the boot of the car, his PA waiting curiously for further direction. "He'll turn up, sir. He always does."

"I'd like to be ready when he does."

"He'll probably want the coat back."

"I'm counting on it." An idea began to grow in the back of his mind, and as the driver pulled away, he changed his mind about going back to the office just yet. "We're running an errand first."

Later that night, Mycroft left his office late, collecting his briefcase along with the long, garment bag containing his purchase. It would hang quite nicely in the spare room until Sherlock came home. The new, well-tailored Belstaff would suit him very nicely. Well, that is, once Sherlock had stopped being annoyed at Mycroft in general, he would probably be extremely pleased with the garment.

Now he just hoped it hadn't been purchased in vain.

++

"You need to find something to occupy your hands and your mind, John." They'd met a couple of times in the week since what John referred to mentally as his middle of the night fright and he was overall in a better place. Most of the time. "It takes the focus off yourself. Doing something." He'd been unable to find work that appealed to him.

"Such as?" John could hear the fatigue in his voice.

"What did you used to do, before the military?"

"I was a busy doctor. A surgeon."

"What else? Did you enjoy reading?"

"Not really."

"Music, theatre?"

"No."

"Well, how about sports?"

"You don't give up, do you?" John's rhetorical question set them both back a little, his voice sharper than necessary, the unspoken hint that giving up was something on John's mind.

"Give up?" Ella asked gently, sensing that the phrase choice was deliberate. "I don't think that would be a very good trait for anyone in this profession, do you?" In wordless avoidance, John's eyes closed. "Or for you either."

"Maybe _before._ "

"And now. I don't see you as anyone who gives up. You're not a quitter." When she spoke again, it was perhaps more intense, the words and her tone conveying importance, and though he couldn't see her, she leaned forward. "So, where were we? Sports? Playing or spectating, actually."

"No. Rugby in uni when I was pre-med. Watched the occasional football game." He was well aware that his voice trailed off as he recalled the association, a previous football game, an unexpected complication. It was a heavy moment.

++

The overhead speakers at the med evac hospital paged all personnel to their stations, and as John rushed along with a few of the nurses, the medics, the corpsmen for the inrush of ambulances that were expected, he caught wind of the situation.

"Oh god," began the clerk who'd taken the call. "They were only playing football, an abandoned field." The set-up unfortunate, paving the way for the bad news. "Landmines. Couple dead. Heard Miller ..." the words trailed off, and any way of finishing that sentence was awful. John could feel the first twinges of nausea at that thought, quite unpleasant indeed.

And the heaviness, the unsettling feeling in the pit of his stomach, had all come back at Ella's prompting question.

John's whisper after he'd explained the tragedy, the losses, the football association, was also heavy, "No thanks, I haven't watched football since."

++

The constable's response to Mycroft had been laced with frustration and fatigue. "I can't hold him indefinitely. He's not a medical case, he doesn't meet admission criteria even if I were to take him to A&E. We can charge him with possession and use of illegal substances, but it will, in all likelihood, get reduced when a judge reviews it. That'll be in three days. He's claiming that you'll post bail and come get him long before that."

Mycroft weighed his options, and the wisdom of them, in silence.

"So can I tell him you'll come get him?" She sounded inpatient and they both knew she had other things to do. "He seems rather contrite."

"He's playing you," Mycroft told the woman. 

"Do you need the address again?"

"No." Mycroft could hear yelling in the background, along with the sounds of other people talking, phones ringing, and keystrokes. "I'm not coming. He can stay the full time and deal with the courtroom. I'm done being his safety net."

"He's not going to like it, but I understand. I really do," she said to him, but Mycroft doubted that she knew his pain, how much it was costing him.

Mycroft swallowed hard over the lump in his throat. Sherlock would be most unhappy. For all the times he'd picked up the pieces, provided meals or money or clothing or a mobile, he was quite aware that in order to help, he was going to have to take a step back and stop fixing things, making them go away, or continuing to block the consequences of Sherlock's choices.

But it felt terrible, as if Mycroft was personally responsible. Closing his eyes, he could recall the childhood moments, holidays, meals, memories, the house in which they'd grown up. The connection they'd had over music, he on a French horn, Sherlock on his violin, the duets with mummy accompanying them at the pianoforte.

He wanted Sherlock to clean up his act, to have many years, more memories, and at the rate he was going, none of his future was guaranteed. He hoped, with a deep yearning, that Sherlock would not only survive into adulthood, but forgive him for this very difficult demonstration of tough love.

"Please tell him that once he gets out, he knows how and where to find me."

++

"My life was mostly working." John considered the truth of his assertion. He had primarily thrived at his pre-army job, done some research on his off hours - work-related of course, and picked up extra time when there was a need.

Ella smiled, changed tacks. "How about in the army? What was your free time like?"

"Napping." He snickered at the memory, remembering the boredom that ofttimes grated on him. He remembered telling some of the men in his unit that sleeping was a great way to pass the time. Some of them - himself included - could sleep anywhere, anytime, almost on command.

"You're not making this easy," Ella said with a mildly playful grin. "What did other people do in their free time, maybe even something that you could at least _pretend_ you'd be interested in?"

"One of the guys in the barracks had a guitar. A few of them sang." Helplessly John shrugged and then quickly reigned her in. "Not a hint of musical ability with me, though I liked listening." Ella scratched down a few words with her pencil and made a gesture that encouraged John to continue. "I don't know. A couple people took up painting, virtual college courses and online gaming when we had good internet. No interest in any of that."

"Any interaction with the people? The residents, I mean?"

"Other than taking care of injuries, minor procedures from time to time," John gestured emptily again, "No. Handed out supplies to the locals now and again." Ella made another entry on her list. "Sorry. I'm boring." Something triggered a memory then, and he grinned. "Some of the guys took to tutoring in English, some of the neighborhood kids. They could be right pests, after candy and stickers and such. For a while, seemed there were always these little urchins hanging around."

"Not you?"

"I was interested, but mostly there wasn't time. I just never got around to it."

"Too busy napping?" she teased, and he joined in on the laughter, appreciating that he didn't do that much but that it felt ... _healthy._ "I do have a suggestion, then. Nothing directly related to what we've been talking about. And truthfully, it's a little early in this process to be thinking about it, but it might be a good match for you."

"Okay, what is it?"

++

Had Sherlock been a brawler, he might've punched a wall. Or better, his brother. And oh he was angry, seething at having been left in a holding cell for nearly three days. And he was shaky, hungry (the fare he'd been served, quite lacking), thirsty, and without a working mobile again.

That could be fixed, a request to his brother, along with some strongly worded fussing for having abandoned him. He weasled his way back to an abandoned building, recognised someone, borrowed a phone. Only to find that Mycroft was not taking his calls directly, and when he tried the work extensions, he met a stone wall there too. Even when he'd managed to coerce his way through a series of lies to Mycroft's PA, no amount of threats, cajoling, or complaining would get his call placed through. "I'll take a message," he kept hearing.

 _I'll take a message._ As if he wasn't good enough. As if he'd been disconnected, refused, and found wanting.

He handed the borrowed mobile back and turned his steps to actually go and visit his brother's office building. He found a cast off Oyster card that had a small balance, he did get a bit closer than having to walk the entire way, but once he was there, he hedged. He wanted to go in, to visit, but was particularly uncertain that he'd be welcomed, and he was only a few steps from the door when he changed his mind, changed directions, kept walking. Although he wanted - needed - Mycroft's assistance, he feared being turned away.

++

"Sir?"

"Yes."

"Wanted you to know, we've got eyes on your brother. Found him on CCTV."

"Where is he?"

++

Sherlock sighed as he headed back to a less commercial part of town, setting his bloody brother's office behind him. He would go find some familiar faces, hopefully a place to crash. He did not see the curtains move back as Mycroft stood waiting, watching, hoping that this glimpse of his brother's back was not going to be his last.

It was a good sign, he thought, that Sherlock had come this close. But apparently, he was not quite ready.

It took almost all his mental energy not to go after him.

++

"You're not going to tell me that I should volunteer at an animal shelter, brushing puppies?" Ella chuckled and shook her head. "And I'm not holding babies in a hospital unit."

"No." Ella smiled, again feeling more hopeful at John's ability to interact, to jest. "But I commend you for knowing your limits."

"Okay, so ... enlighten me."

++

John zipped up his coat as he left Ella's, feeling the faintest, remote twinge of ... relief. A small spark, the faintest light of a match, the sulphur smell of ignition, a flame that lights faint tendrils of dry grass. Small sticks of kindling grow dark, emit small puffs of smoke before catching, flames bursting bright white and blue before thoroughly becoming red. The first touch of a comforting fire, nurtured carefully into something more, something bigger, something not only useful but comforting.

It felt like relief. And hope.

Maybe there was actually a point to all this.

There was also the reassuring sense of hunger, of hope, of ... literal hunger. With a small smile, he considered the tasks in front of him, did a mental inventory of his barren cabinets in the tiny kitchenette of his dingy flat. A quick run to the shop then, and he would find something to simmer as he pondered Ella's suggestion, and his homework, the journal entry she'd requested. Into a basket went some scarce ingredients, a small package of meat, pasta, spices, and he was nearly finished at the store when he caught sight of a person trying hard to blend in - and there was some faint unease, a niggling suspicion of caution.

From near the shelves, John watched as a woman turned from her cart to browse and the man on silent feet took a few rapid steps toward her unattended purse. He was disheveled and tall, with unruly curls and something of a desperate look in his eyes over pale, gaunt cheeks. A faint tremor in his hand was evident and John found himself standing still, taking it all in as he watched the hand begin to dart into a bag clearly not his own.

"Hey," John said, low and growling.

Both the shopper and the man looked over at him abruptly in surprise. She turned back toward her cart, seeing John's attention, and in the moment that followed, the man changed his mind and practically sprinted out of the store empty-handed. There had been no time to react any further.

The store-owner had also surmised what was going on after the fact, and ran to the door to see about pursuit, then turned back inside. "Gone. Long gone," he lamented, then approached the woman. "No harm, I suppose, he didn't get anything. Are you all right?" As they began to debrief from the incident in which he did admonish her gently not to leave her cart unattended even for a second, John glanced out the door, wondering at what was driving that man, the demons and need and ... hopelessness.

He paid for his items with a slightly improved sense of anticipation, looking forward to preparing a meal and getting on with things best he could. Just perhaps, this day was the start of a better outlook, a new beginning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> An interesting first meeting, is it not?
> 
> Left an impression on John at any rate.


	5. A Door Closes, A Window Opens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So there's a little spot in this chapter that gets a touch suspenseful. Three sentences further and everyone can relax. I swear to you it's okay, that things are fine, that the suspicion is unfounded.

John sighed as he entered Ella's office, knowing that in all likelihood he would leave - again - with the usual combination of mild headache and moderate exhaustion. The past few weeks had been more progress, some of it grueling, more steady conversations. Dealing with a whole lot of repressed anger.

It seemed that once John got angry, there was an almost endless list of things he was angry about.

About Harry. His bloody sister who had never returned his call. Who had been something of a difficult sibling, who had monopolised parental attention, who was not supportive when John felt that it was not really too fucking much to ask. Apparently for her it was too much.

About getting shot in the first place.

About the injury leaving him with a permanent disability.

(Not that he could say the word disability without clenching his teeth.)

About his military career being derailed.

Along with his surgical career.

A few sessions previous, he allowed himself a really dark moment of honesty, expressing anger that the bullet was not more accurate. Specifically, that the bullet had missed a fatal mark. Ella had immediately pounced, asking if he still felt that way and if he had a plan. He declined that, assuring her that he mostly felt a little more hopeful. Although the anger lived just under the surface at times. She had studiously watched him, his eye contact, his demeanor, knowing his progress - and the cost of the humbling admission. Her offer - "as you know, John, there are medications, if these feelings keep up, or if it gets worse ..." - and he’d shaken his head minutely before confessing that he didn't need meds but would let her know if he did.

They'd delved into other frustrations, such as his living arrangements, the small, bland bedsit.

He'd even spent a few minutes seething about the encounter with the pickpocketing thief at the store, upset that someone would stoop so low as to do such a thing, to victimise someone else. He was surprised to find that he was even more frustrated at himself that he hadn't acted more quickly. Hadn't caught the would-be-criminal. He could vividly recall those pale eyes, the desperation, becoming fairly certain that the man had been either impaired or withdrawing from something at the time. He remembered the tall frame, the curls, the wild look in his eyes, and on occasion as he walked from place to place, he found himself kind of watching out for anyone who looked vaguely familiar.

He was angry at his former unit for not maintaining contact, annoyed at the soldiers who'd managed to avoid that particular mission - _angry at people for not getting shot?_ Ella had asked with a small smile - irritated with his accepting his decommissioning, being invalided home without first pleading his case.

He was even angry with Mike, with whom he had spoken with those weeks ago. Mike was _Mike_ and had been nauseatingly nice, interested in meeting up with John but his schedule was understandably tight, with his life going as planned and his family and his job and his good mental health and his _kindness._ John had gone off on a tirade about that even as he knew he was being unreasonable and then just as quickly grew introspective, knowing his was misguided and unduly frustrated. Projecting, even.

Mostly, Ella let him talk. At times, she asked a gentle question, asked him to consider an opposing view, or calmly advised him to consider what advice he'd offer someone else if they presented him with the same situation.

The first time she'd said it, he'd balked. "What do you mean by that?"

"If someone described this problem to you, what would you tell them?"

He didn't answer. And then he wouldn't.

"John?"

"I would give them a break. Tell them not to be so hard on themselves." Ella's kind smile had been quick and she let John continue with his spot-on self-analysis. "Obviously I'm not interested in cutting myself some slack, or giving myself a break."

"Any thoughts as to why?"

"I don't know," he finally admitted, slowly.

"Yes, actually I think you do." Her voice was soothing and kind. "You just don't like the answer."

"I don't like it here. This is not what I'd planned on."

"It means moving on." She smiled supportively. "So what would you tell someone else?"

His jaw set stubbornly and he resisted speaking. But she waited him out, and finally he offered, "To suck it up and deal with it. Everyone has problems."

"You'd say it nicer. I know you."

"Yes." His grin was not quite genuine, a little sheepish. And Ella was relieved to see the little glimpse of the real John inside.

"This is not what you expected, I know. Not what you'd been counting on." When he nodded, she grew softer. "Moving forward isn't a bad thing."

"Change my plans, in other words." They'd worked their way around the stages of grief and John realised he might be nearing that fifth stage - acceptance. "Stage five." It wasn't actually a question.

She smiled again, fondly, considering that the challenges of treating a fellow professional like John were outweighed by the benefits of his education, his training. "It's harder than that, but yes, I think so." Conversation went back and forth for a few more minutes, and eventually Ella segued into another topic. "So, I have something for you."

"Oh?" He looked up with interest and saw that she was handing over a sturdy handbook, an informational guide, an orientation packet. Inside, a small spark flickered, came to life, igniting a glimmer of ... actual anticipation for the future. He couldn’t have explained it well, but he felt something within him bloom. "Really?"

Her smile was warm and wide. "Had a very nice discussion with the director there. We both feel that you're ready." They'd been discussing it for a while, had actually had an informal interview during one of John's previous sessions with Ella, and agreed that when some time had passed, when Ella and John both concurred that perhaps the time was right, they'd set up some formal training, a trial period. “What do you think?”

"I will still meet with you."

"Of course."

"I appreciate this," John mused aloud, and was impressed at how the words rang true as he spoke them. "For so many reasons."

"You've been in a service-oriented profession your whole life. It's embedded in who you are, and it's fulfilling like really not much else is going to be for you." He listened, nodded, serious, and Ella waited a moment before continuing. "And you're welcome, also for so many reasons."

"All right." John rose, tapped the paperwork. "I'll give them a call."

Nodding, Ella grinned back at him. "And I'll see you in a week."

++

_Crisis Hotline_

_Training and Handbook_

_Scripts and Support Services_

_for Crisis Counselors and Telephone Support Personnel_

_London Office_

++

"So you'll kind of get a feel for how serious or at risk the caller is. Voice tone, background noise, word choice. The crying ones are usually the least at risk for completed suicide, they want help and recognise the seriousness of their situation."

John could well believe that. At his darkest moments, the emotion was buried quite far from the surface. He could still recall how it felt to be cold, flat, steely. Uncaring. Even as he remembered, he was grateful to have moved past that.

"Dispatch, you can always get permission or tell the caller what you're doing, call on another line, at least get routed to the nearest cell tower from where the call is coming from. We're also using an app that can actually put you through to emergency services via text too. It can be an instant messaging with people on the scene. But your role is mostly keep them talking. Contract for safety." The director waited for John to nod that he understood. "Mobilise protective factors if you can." Glancing down, he flipped through a few papers. "Here's a list of possible questions, screening things. Some sample calls. Topic specific, and of course there are always others. But each call is different."

Taking the paper, John quickly perused the list. It included substance and alcohol abuse, having a concrete plan for suicide (and he could picture the times he either looked at or thought about his weapon), lethality of various means, insomnia, isolation, domestic violence, and human trafficking. There were a few tips and options about how to end a call, including more urgent suggestions such as calling back in one hour or following up the next day, to not being alone, to self-care. "All right. These look pretty complete actually."

"No call is ever completely alike, so obviously ... you find something in common if you can. Make a connection."

They chatted for a few more minutes, set up a training plan - see one, do one, teach one but for hotline workers, John thought. Perusing the schedule, he noted that there was an upcoming liaison training session with a member of Scotland Yard, led by DI Gregory Lestrade.

++

A week later, he'd finished training. A week after that, he'd hit the ground running and managed a wide variety of calls. Women, men, young, old, crying, serious. Some were what he would consider low risk. It was eye-opening to realise how many hurting people there were, lonely, bored, desperate. He'd called 999 several times, waited on the line, made sure someone else had taken command of the situation, and finished a stretch of shifts feeling like finally, he'd made a difference, brightened someone's terrible day. As he'd been told, he would almost immediately get a sense of how vulnerable a caller was and learned some management tips, helpful things to say, using gentle or firm instructions.

He was finally sleeping a little better, himself. His appetite was beginning to normalise. He didn't feel quite so trapped in a dark place.

And even better, he got the impression from time to time that he was actually managing to help people.

++

"National Crisis line. This is John."

There was cool silence for a moment, and John counted off a few seconds.

"Thanks for calling. I'm listening."

Silence. The skin on the back of his neck prickled, his hair standing a bit on edge. It was very very quiet and he adjusted the headset over his ears, the microphone in front of him

"It's okay. I'm glad you called, and --"

"Give me three good reasons why I shouldn't." The voice was rough, raspy. Male speaker, young adult. There was some vibrato in the tone and John suspected that stress made the vocal range and pitch a bit higher than normal. All of his hackles continued to rise as he could just intuit that this one meant business.

"Why you shouldn't what?" It could actually have been several serious options - overdose, otherwise use, jump, cut, hurt someone, attempt self-harm - so John sought more information.

"An idiotic response."

"Okay. You _shouldn't_ ..." and he left the details out, thinking he could answer any number of reasons, "... because obviously you don't want to, given that you called me to talk you out of it."

"Maybe I just wanted this call on my history so that my brother will think that I was making an effort." 

John could hear and sense the snark, the attitude, and thought it was a good sign, and so it loosened his tongue. "... and because it's my second full week on the job and it would upset me."

"So now this is all about _you_? What kind of crisis worker are you anyway?" There was a disdainful snort. "Is that how they trained you to ..."

Interrupting, a bit chagrined, "I'm here to help you and to listen," John clarified quickly, half-way agreeing that perhaps he shouldn't have said that. "I apologise if ..."

The caller cut him off abruptly, animatedly, with a brief snort. "No, actually it was kind of refreshing. Why is this your second week on the job? Because clearly you're a grown adult and had another vocation."

"We're actually here to talk about you. Are you in a safe place?"

"Not especially. Safe enough I guess." There was some hesitation. "So I would suspect that you've had some sort of trauma of your own and are doing this out of ..." John could hear the pressured speech, the clear diction, and the wobble in his voice. "Is this community service for you? You committed some crime and now you have to listen to whining people call and cry about ..."

"You're not crying, and no, that's not the case."

"Maybe you had some _issues_ of your own."

John had already scrolled through the console in front of him to find that the incoming number was blocked, not a surprise. "I would like to address your question, though, when you asked for three good reasons --"

"Oh no. This is _my_ call and _I'm_ going to decide what we talk about." There was a flat anger underneath that just surfaced, and John could feel churning in his stomach as he got the suspicion that this caller meant business.

"Okay, that's fine. Go ahead."

"No one will miss me, in fact, getting me out of the picture will make things much better for almost everyone."

John's training had allowed him ample opportunity to role play this very conversation, where time is short and the need is urgent. "I disagree. Please take a deep breath, and know that I would like to talk with you, see if we can find some reasons to keep living --"

But he was talking to a dead line.

++

John filled out the requisite post-call form, noting some of the phrases the caller had used, the pressured speech, the despair, the mention of a brother and left it in the log book where all the counselors at least looked at the beginning of their shift for unfinished or open calls deemed high risk.

It was at the beginning of his next scheduled shift that there were a few addendums to the log with question marks. One worker noted that he had several hang-ups in a row and then another call right afterward asking if John was working. A call the next day was similar, in which the caller requested to know when John's next shift was scheduled. Company policy was never to disclose this of course, and John wondered (if it was that particular caller) if the man would call back. Or worse, if it was too late.

Each call from a blocked number, John found himself wondering if it was him, but so far it had been other people with other needs.

A few shifts went by, but John hadn't forgotten. He'd read the online police news looking for information, not that he had any details, and he mentioned it in his scheduled meeting with Ella. Her advice - you can't fix someone else - was sage although it didn't stop him from wondering. At the end of that appointment with Ella, she commented on how helping other people had seemed to make a big difference in John's own outlook. He didn't disagree.

++

"Hello, thanks for calling. This is John."

"Finally." It was that familiar voice with a frustrated sharp edge to it.

"Oh. Hello." John felt an overwhelming sense of relief that the man had obviously not taken drastic measures, that he was yet again reaching out. "I've been actually hoping you would call back. What can I do to help you with today?"

"What would be your best estimate of the minimum distance required to fall that would result in a greater than 90% probability of dying on impact?"

_"What?"_

"How high would the building need to be for me to not survive if I jumped off?"

 _Jesus._ "Are you on top of a building now?" With new concern, John listened, and found the acoustics consistent with at least being outside. There might've been a faint breeze as if he was also high up, an echoing open sound.

"You are in rare form tonight. Go ahead, ask me another stupid question."

"Where are you?"

"Barts. More specifically, the roof. See, that's why I have to know about survival, because when you're that close to a hospital, it matters."

John spoke immediately, calmly, "Yes, I can imagine that reducing variables would make sense. Sort of." He brought up the 999 Emergency Text service on his computer and sent off a flurry of words, using caution to keep his fingers, the keyboard, keystrokes quiet underneath his voice as he continued to talk on the phone. "Instead, let's talk a little bit more ..."

**John Watson: reporting possible jumper, top of Barts Hospital. Crisis hotline, active call in progress now.**

"I'm glad you called back. I've been wondering about you."

"Well now you know. Today's both of our lucky days." The sarcastic edge was back. In spades.

"I'm going to stay on the phone with you. You are not alone."

"Obviously. I did call you."

"I'm sorry you're in a bad patch."

In front of him, the screen flashed as someone responded to his text.

 **NSY:** **Squad car en route. ETA 3 minutes. Keep him talking.**

**John Watson: Will try. Adult male, age and name unknown. He's calm.**

"Well, as I told you last time, I only complicate matters and ..." he mumbled a few more things then, about being worthless and a hassle for everyone.

"I don't see you as a hassle. You're actually ... Remember when you asked about my work history?" John began, faltering a little, unsure. "You wondered what I used to do." Silence. "Why I'm answering a hotline now. Remember?"

"Yes."

"You were right, there was some trauma. Had a little accident in the military, and --"

"Afghanistan or Iraq?"

"How did ...? Afghanistan." John could feel his nervousness rise, deflected it back to the conversation with the caller. "That was a lucky guess."

"I never guess, I listened, I made connections --" He stopped talking abruptly.

"Are you still up on the roof?"

"Did you hear a splat?"

"God no, please don't." John spoke quickly, genuinely, and opted for some distraction to buy the policemen some time. "So yeah, I got shot. Just minding my own business one day when --"

"You weren't minding your own business if you were militarily deployed in Afghanistan. You were there as unwelcome guests and had actual enemies, and obviously others were none too happy about your being there."

" -- we were attacked. And in that moment, everything changed." John waited, listening to the silence on the line, the sound of someone outdoors, muted traffic. He wondered if his distraction, his conversation, was working. "You still there?"

"Yes."

"I used to be an army surgeon, all gone in the blink of an eye."

"Surgeon. Pity you didn't answer my question about mechanism of injury and fall distance." His words were intense. "Blink of an eye? Probably not that quick. I'm sure they dangled some hope in front of you, maybe time will heal, one day at a time, and other cliched nonsense. And then, when you were still feeling optimistic, the rug got pulled out from under you."

"Um, yeah, something like that."

"Hurts worse when you aren't expecting it."

"It hasn't been easy. None of us have it easy, do we?"

**NSY: Arriving now.**

**John Watson: He's still talking.**

"Did you call the police, John?"

"Why do you ask?"

"Two police cars just arrived, no sirens, just flashing lights. Stopped."

"It's a hospital, I would think that happens all day long there."

" _Did you call the police, John_?" There was distinct annoyance in his tone.

"I did."

"I wasn't planning on jumping so soon, but you've left me no choice."

"Don't jump off the roof. Don't jump. Please. We just want to get you some help, get you down safely --"

"Shut up. You have no idea ..." The words trailed off into mumbling, and then John could hear more wind noise in the speaker of the phone.

**NSY: Officers on scene. Suspect visible at roof edge.**

"Please back up. Move away from the edge of the roof." John sat forward on his chair, leaning in, watching the computer screen for any more texts, and held onto the microphone of his headset as if that would help the man listen. "You know, I don't even know your name."

"Horrors, how will you find my obituary tomorrow without it."

"You mentioned a brother last time we talked. I'm sure he --"

"-- will be relieved when this is over."

"Stop please. I had some dark times too, where I didn't think it was worth it."

Through the headset, John could hear the vague sounds of perhaps a megaphone, a speaker, but it was too muffled to make out any words. "So what happened for you? Did things get better?"

"Eventually, yes." John was acutely aware of the noise in the headset, background sounds, his own heartbeat swooshing loudly in his ears. "So what is your name?"

"Sherlock."

"Thank you for telling me."

"I didn't want this to happen, John, not this way. I just want it ... over. And now you've gone and ruined it."

"Please don't, Sherlock."

"Maybe you'll like this instead," he growled and then there was the sound of pain, and there was quite a bit of background noise.

Followed by a distinct sound of air rushing by. And then a loud crash. The call disconnected.

And then silence.

**John Watson: Call ended. Please advise.**

**John Watson: The call disconnected. Do you have him?**

**John Watson: Hello?**

It was long minutes before John received a response.

**NSY: He is in custody. No injuries.**

**John Watson: Thank god. When I lost the call, I thought ...**

**NSY: He tossed the mobile off the roof. It's a total loss.**

**John Watson: Thank god, I was so worried.**

**NSY: He's being taken into the A &E.**

**John Watson: Appreciate the help.**

**NSY: You too. Nice job.**

John finally exhaled, feeling the stress of the past few minutes, the tension in his chest, and he slid the headset off, tossed it on the desk in front of him. Fortunately, there wasn't much time left of his shift, and the console remained fairly quiet as his replacement arrived. After putting on his jacket, he headed out into the night, a strange combination of relieved and concerned. Without too much conscious thought, he caught the tube toward Barts. Knowing how slowly the wheels of emergency medicine turned particularly when combined with a mental health issue, he thought perhaps that Sherlock would still be there.

As he approached the intake clerk at the triage desk, he scanned the room as a matter of habit and happened to notice a familiar face. He'd been part of a training class for his new position. The man - DI Greg Lestrade - smiled in acknowledgement and intercepted John before he got there.

They exchanged names again, and Greg fired off a question, tucking the small notebook he'd been using into a pocket. "So was that you on the call from earlier? The jumper?"

Nodding slightly, John wondered at the quick connection he'd made. "Yes, how'd you --"

"I was on scene, and they'd forwarded the texts. Your name came through." There was a moment of appreciation as Greg complimented him. "Nice job, by the way."

"Thanks. For your department, too." They stepped back out of the way as a young family rushed inside and sought immediate assistance from the clerk. "So, he's still here?"

"They're bringing him out in a moment."

"You're not --"

"Pressing charges? No." His assurance was quick and almost amused. "I just wanted to --"

They would have continued the discussion except that one of the nurses came out then. "Oh, he's not here then?"

Greg tilted his head. "What do you mean? I thought you were to be bringing him out to me."

"Went to get him." She tapped the paperwork in her hand. "Room was empty. I rather thought he'd come to find you."

John sighed to himself, mostly silently, while the DI and nurse exchanged light-hearted comments about her not finishing the paperwork and Greg being unable to close the loop on the investigation. As he did so, he happened to catch a glimpse of a man wearing a non-descript, disheveled coat that was worn in many places sitting hunched into a corner of the waiting room. The man, young and with an unruly mop of dark curls peeking out from under a slouchy beanie, also happened to look up just at that moment - and quickly put his finger to his lips in a silent message and then wink at him. He was certainly close enough to have heard their conversation, and while John turned his head so he wouldn't be obviously staring, he saw the man tuck his hospital ID band up under the cuff of his sleeve.

The man looked quite aware of his surroundings and the smile was small but still there.

For some reason, he was drawn into the mystery, the ... deception. He listened quietly as the nurse shrugged, knowing that the final signature on the discharge papers wasn't mission critical. Greg concurred, commenting that he had just wanted to make sure the man was all right and going to link up with some professional help after a situation like this. "If he rings back," John began and then shrugged as the others listened, "is there a message?"

"No, not really." The nurse tucked her papers under her arm and disappeared back into the A&E ward. Greg rolled his shoulders a little, enjoying the stretch for a moment. "But I doubt you'll hear from him again."

"I suppose not," he agreed even as he struggled against looking at the man in the waiting area nearby and he could feel eyes on him. Greg's mobile summoned him, and he was already answering it as he waved a quick goodbye and left John there at the periphery of the waiting room.

The man in the corner was smirking - _smirking_ \- as John's smile broadened for some reason that he really couldn't have explained if he'd wanted to.

"Sherlock, I presume?" he breathed quietly.

"Hi John."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alternate title: Step away from the edge of that damn roof, Sherlock.
> 
> ++
> 
> I assure you, John will have stern words for Sherlock for his absconding without permission from the A&E. And he will be questioning the wisdom of his own complicity.
> 
> Not exactly where I'd hoped to leave them in this chapter but it's longer than I'd expected (yes, the chapter count is rising by at least one) and I ~~wanted~~ needed to share it with you.
> 
> ++
> 
> Please let me know if something is unclear. Thanks for reading. I appreciate you, the fandom, and the escapism of writing.


	6. Progress - Hopefully

John carried both steaming cups, set them down on the table where Sherlock waited. When Sherlock looked up, he asked, "You're sure you didn't want something to eat?"

"I'm fine."

Carefully, assessing, John watched Sherlock slouch on the bench opposite him - seeing too thin, seeing the inability to make and hold eye contact, noticing an underlying sadness. He sipped his, set the cup down, and opted to be as direct as he could. "I was a little surprised when I recognised you." He waited briefly until Sherlock frowned in confusion. "Tonight was not the first time I've seen you." Sherlock blinked a few times, puzzled, and sat a little straighter as he eyed John and then the coffee cup.

"What?" The scowl deepened. "When?"

"Are you even going to remember the answer if I give it? Seems whatever you took earlier is still kind of lingering."

"I'm perfectly in control here." Unfortunately, it took a few tries for his eyes to focus. "I'm fine."

"The first time," John began, "was maybe six weeks ago," and then told him about seeing him nearly shoplift out of some woman's purse in a trolley.

"I did not."

"You absolutely did. I got a great look at you, interrupted the whole thing. You were ... well, fairly out of it. Desperate." Feeling that he certainly didn't want to give the man grief after the obviously stressful day he'd had, he made sure his tone was light. "So I'm glad you reached out, called the hotline. Though I'm sorry that today was especially --"

"You have no idea what today was like."

"I know that something obviously ..."

"What. What exactly could you possibly know about me ..."

"Don't be thinking that you have the market on bad days." Sherlock's gaze sharply cut to John, disbelieving and annoyed. John only smiled as he tilted his head. "I'm not saying your day - okay, or days weren't extremely hard. But ..."

"Shut up. You have no idea."

"You know," John chuckled. "I don't think we're going to play an unending round of who's had the worse day, the hardest time here. And I'm not saying I'll win, either. Because clearly," and he indicated at Sherlock's frame then eased back in the bench, tried to lighten it up, smiling a little and hoping it came across as kind. "All any of us can do it go on from here, one day at a time, and --"

"Oh god. Save me the platitudes." A hand brushed randomly over his brow. "You know, all I want right this second is another hit,"

"No."

"-- or a place to crash for the night." Sherlock looked up, a little bit calculating, but oddly hopeful. "You have a spare bed for me?" John blinked, surprised at the bold - and unreasonable - request. "A place on the floor?"

"No."

"That's _kind_ of you. That's definitely taking it one day at a time, wouldn't want to inconvenience you or anything --" Annoyed, Sherlock glared as he spoke, but there was not a lot of venom in his words.

"Small bedsit. The literal place on the floor is barely big enough, but ..." He shrugged, pondering that he was giving it any consideration, and he reminded himself of many reasons why it was unacceptable. "It's really not a good idea, Sherlock. I'm sorry."

"Probably just worried I'll steal all your valuables."

"No, it's a space issue. And an ethical consideration --"

"You realise I have nowhere else to go?"

"What about the brother you'd mentioned?"

He made a sour face at the mention of family and ignored it. "And you realise I'm without a mobile. And without a heavy enough coat for the weather. Someone ran off with my long one ..."

"Stop." John'd had enough, knew he was being manipulated. "All right. One night only, you can crash on my floor if you want. Finish your coffee first."

++

John second-guessed himself all the way to his tiny bedsit, Sherlock leading the way like a hyper dog on an imaginary leash, pulling him quickly as he forged ahead - and at times lagging behind, figuratively sniffing at something that caught his interest as they walked.

"So, you're all right then?" John asked, hoping the open-ended question wasn't too pushy.

"I suppose."

"An hour or two ago you were on the top of a building, threatening to end it all."

"I never really wanted to." For all the lies he'd spoke throughout the evening starting with 'I'm fine,' John did actually believe him. His manner and diction seemed real. "I wasn't going to."

"Tossing your mobile over was a terrible, _terrible_ idea."

"Frightened you, did I?" There was a smile, a zesty one that John _might_ have found charming if things were different.

"As you intended."

"I really didn't want to toss myself over." He shrugged. "Waste of a good mobile, though. Don't suppose you have a spare?"

"It's safe to say that if my bedsit is small enough that floor space is at a premium, that no, a spare mobile just sitting around is most definitely a no." He chuckled sadly again, thinking that Sherlock would be hard pressed to find something of value worth stealing from his bedsit.

"Don't worry, I won't."

"Won't what?"

"I can see you're worried about me robbing you blind while you sleep." With an arched eye, he looked around, shaking his head barely as if finding the entire place wanting. "Despite what you seem to remember from before, I have no intention."

John found a spare pillow, threadbare duvet, and an old pair of pyjamas that he lobbed in Sherlock's direction. "Need anything else? There's a new toothbrush in the loo. Coffee's, well ... instant, in the kitchen." Sherlock nodded, his head down, the pillow and duvet hanging loosely from his hands. "Will you be here in the morning when I get up?"

An honest shrug, an uncertain answer, followed. John hesitated a moment before jotting something down on a piece of paper. "My cell number, then. You know, for ... later I guess. If you ever need something."

The flat was indeed empty when John awakened. It surprised him quite a bit that he'd slept through Sherlock moving about and leaving without disturbing him. The pillow and duvet and pyjamas were left, not exactly folded but in a pile. Oddly enough, Sherlock had placed the small statue of the frog playing the violin on top of it.

++

The next shift John was scheduled for started off with a flurry of incoming calls. No sooner would he finish with one when it would ring again. And so in the hustle of the shift, in the final hour he heard the door open and expected one of the other workers, so when he looked up with that in mind, he was surprised to find a stranger.

Adjusting his headset and sitting a little taller, he finished his sentence while holding up a hand that would request the visitor to wait. Out of the corner of his eye, he watched the man - tall, thinning hair, long expensive looking coat and even more expensive looking leather shoes - eye the few chairs in the room with distaste while he waited.

"Can I help you?" John began, taking off the headset and standing up. "We don't really have appointments here, but ..."

"I'm looking for John Watson." Their eye connection held just a moment, neither reacting immediately, sizing the other up. The visitor was notably cool, stoic, business-like. " _Dr._ John Watson, I presume."

John gave a sort of half nod. "And you are?"

With a regal tilt of his head and an intentional blink, the man didn't answer the question. "What is your connection to Sherlock Holmes?"

John could feel his heels digging in and his confidence raised along with his chin. "I don't believe I caught your name."

The man smiled a little, an amused arrogant sort. "I'm given to understand that you provided a place for him to sleep overnight?"

"I think that's none of your business."

"I'd be happy to pay you a meaningful sum of money on a regular basis to keep tabs on him. In exchange for information."

"First of all, no. And second, who are you again?" John watched as the man did the equivalent of a snobbish eye-roll, and he reached a conclusion. "Oh, you're the _brother._ " He could also somewhat understand that Sherlock had been perhaps not eager to seek him out for help.

"Thank you for your service in Afghanistan, by the way, Captain." John could feel his jaw clench, and he swallowed tightly. "Your service record, spotless. Your post-traumatic stress, resolving, or so believes Ms. Thompson, doesn't she?" He raised a brow, glared, and maintained silence. "I do believe that you're improving. In fact, she seems to feel deep down that you're not haunted by the war, you miss it."

"Piss off," John breathed, almost inaudibly.

"Give Sherlock my regards, next you see him. Despite what you probably believe you know, I do worry about him."

"This is an odd way to show it."

"You have no idea," came the reply, and the telephone console lit up again with an incoming call. "Until we meet again," the man said quietly, then nodded once, and left the room.

John half expected to receive some sort of communication from Sherlock, either on the volunteer hotline, or to his mobile directly. It wouldn't have surprised him to have found Sherlock loitering outside his bedsit, either. But it ended up being just as quiet, forlorn, and dismal as usual.

But a few more days went by. And then a week.

It wasn't until nearly a month gone when his mobile vibrated late one evening with an incoming text from an unknown number.

**If you're still at that dreadful bedsit, I'd like to talk about another option.**

**Who is this?**

**John don't be tedious. You know who this is.**

**No actually I don't. JW**

**Meet me at the cafe under 221B Baker Street tomorrow at 10. Name's Sherlock Holmes.**

**I don't think it's a good idea. JW**

**Actually there are many reasons that it is a brilliant plan. I'll explain it when I see you.**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading.
> 
> Let me know if anything is particularly unclear.
> 
> RL continues to kick my proverbial tail. I apologise for the lost momentum of this piece but we're getting there, and there is only one more chapter where all loose ends will be nicely tied together.


	7. Stalemate, Flatmate, Checkmate

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Non-linear. I just needed a bit of fluff and reassurance at the beginning.
> 
> Chapter is --- hmm. Let's go with deliberately choppy (and so is life right now!)

John glanced at his mobile for the time, assuring himself that he still had plenty before leaving for work. His transition shifts at the urgent care clinic were still short ones but busy. Walk-in traffic and those with appointments visited the practice, seeing him for screenings, jabs, minor injuries, non-acute emergencies, and the occasional out-of-the-ordinary oddity. It felt good - useful, satisfying, and thankfully, relievingly _normal_. The tea at his left was just perfect temp to be drinkable, and Mrs. Hudson had said she was on her way up with something breakfasty - usually flaky and sweet. He hoped she delivered it before he had to leave.

He was neither disappointed nor surprised when Mrs. Hudson and her pastries (from downstairs) and Sherlock (from down the hallway), descended upon the kitchen all within several minutes of each other. One was wearing an apron over clothing, the other, a dressing gown over rumpled cotton pyjamas. They were both endearing - for different reasons.

"Good morning dear," Mrs. Hudson offered, holding the plate out in Sherlock's direction only for him to make a sour face and reach for John's tea instead.

John wasn't having it, reaching out to carefully remove the cup from Sherlock's reach before Sherlock could pick it up, and was met with something of a glare. "You should have asked first. You are certainly capable of making your own."

In something of a grumbly but not over-annoyed mood, he sighed in somewhat mock annoyance, rose from the table, and slinked away.

"You're good for him." Crooning just a little, Mrs. Hudson patted John fondly on the shoulder and her words were both kind and honest. She glanced down to where his back had retreated. "As temper tantrums go, that wasn't too --"

She stopped speaking and both John and Mrs. Hudson exchanged worried looks as something of a concerning noise came from the back bedroom. There was more shuffling - clothing, drawers, closet doors, something metallic - and then a louder thumping followed by a muffled demand. _"John!"_

Forcing himself to be casual, he sipped at his tea but then rose to his feet. "I should probably make sure --"

"Good idea, dear," Mrs. Hudson agreed.

John entered their bedroom, expecting to find a disastrous mess, something very amiss, but the room was clutter-free and not the fallout zone he was expecting. A decoy, then, John realised and he'd taken no more than one step into the room when a warm body pressed against him from the back and soft lips nipped at his ear. "Thank god. I thought she'd never leave."

He didn't pull away, enjoying the warmth and the show of affection, even being sort of ambushed, but he didn't engage yet. "I have to work this morning --"

"Stop, we have seventeen minutes - sixteen now - before you have to leave." The warm lips moved to his neck as Sherlock's elegant hands slid around him - one pulling his chest up snug, the other reaching around his waist. "Plenty of time."

"All right." He figured the tea was mostly gone already, and he could grab one of Mrs. Hudson's baked goods on the way out the door. "I suppose rushing now is okay, but later tonight? I'm taking my time with you." He turned toward Sherlock, his own hands sliding under Sherlock's tee shirt, reaching, hugging, feeling a bit of the urgency and simmering desire between them. The bed, fortunately, hadn't been made, and the sheets were still sleepy-warm and welcoming. With a slow and steady inhale, John tucked a knee onto the bed as he eased them down onto it.

A chuckle, a sigh, a moan, a whispered breathy 'yes,' and moments later the snick of a bottle, heavier breathing, and the rustle of the mattress as they moved together. Muscles flexed, the slip and slide of skin on skin, interspersed with the occasional snog, an encouragement, a responsive moan of pleasure. A little later, Sherlock stretched one arm up over his head, his back arching as he watched John get dressed - again - his body sated and relaxed. With shining appreciative eyes, he tucked the duvet up under his chin, blinking slowly, as John returned to him for a soft kiss against his temple, his curls. His eyes drifted closed but the smile remained.

John also was still smiling when he strode into the office, ready to continue his day.

++

It hadn't been quick, easy, or lightly entered into.

"So, all this time had gone by," Ella had looked up at him to find John nodding, eyes bright and wide, "and then you got, what? A text message?"

John cleared his throat, smiling a little, knowing he needed to be careful, not get too far ahead of himself. "I hadn't heard from him in ... well over a month. And then out of the blue, I did. Cryptic, you know. But I went to the meeting with him. There was this flat, he was getting a good deal from the landlady ..."

"So you're thinking about it?"

"It's a great location. Affordable with sharing the expenses."

"But." They smiled as she helped him continue.

"I turned him down but told him I'd give it some thought. I just ..." He paused, choosing his words carefully. Honestly. "There's a history. Complicated. He'd recently got out of rehab and seems quite .. changed. But I don't know him all that well." With a sigh, recalling the great location, a reasonable commute, and it was financially achievable with a flatmate.

Ella waited. When John kept his mouth quiet, she prompted again, "And?"

"It'd be good, but ... feels too soon, for me even." Her gesture, a gentle arm spreading, requesting more if he wanted. "I mean, I was in a dark place myself. It just seems that getting in to something like this ... I might not be ready." Discussing this with her, and his thoughts settled. "I do kind of ... want to. I'm intrigued."

"You've made a lot of progress. You've helped a lot of people. You aren't in a dark place any longer." There was a pause, Ella's hands still and quiet in her lap as she thoughtfully considered John's expression. "Are you?"

"No." He answered, meaning it, confident. Then he gave a faint frown. "But should I do it? Share a flat with someone I have these concerns about?"

"Entirely your call. I would suggest not rushing, which you're already aware of. Perhaps establish some ground rules? And protect yourself, in case ..."

"Do you think _I'm_ ready?"

Gazing steadily, Ella smiled warmly, and her eyes conveyed trust and confidence, reflecting how much progress the man opposite her had made. "I do. But the rest, the other issues, are going to have to be up to you." She eyed the papers in front of her and gave him a hopeful smile. "We should keep moving, then. As you said at the beginning, you have a job interview later today. Let's be sure you're there on time."

++

John's interview at the urgent clinic had gone quite well. The receptionist, charge nurse, and practice founder and he just clicked, interview committee firing questions and all-in-all having a good time, the banter between them all jovial and prodding. It seemed immediately that it was going to be a good match with temperament, work ethic, and a passion for community health, with all parties realising that this was just going to ... work out.

"When can you start?"

"Soon. I'm going to need a couple of weeks, give me time to taper down my hours with the Crisis hotline."

"It's a bit of a commute." The office manager was aware of the distance from where John'd told them he was living and said they could attempt to offer flexible hours that wouldn't require peak travel to cut down on frustrating traffic and delays.

"For the short term. I'm hoping to find someplace closer if things work out." He pondered the Baker Street location but didn't dwell on the opportunity. "Or once I'm here on a more regular basis with longer shifts."

"Of course." The other physician smiled, genuinely pleased with their meeting. "I'm glad you're willing to give this a go. With your experience, and your background, I'd been afraid you might find this a little, I don't know, too mundane. Too boring."

"Oh no, I'm looking forward to it." He'd explained his background, his taking a break after returning from the war, and that he was excited about trying something new and a little more predictable. "I'm sure you still have some excitement here from time to time."

++

The wind whipped between buildings, stirring up the detritus - old trash, dirt, grime - of a nastier section, a back alley in northeast London. The buildings were only three or four stories high and he had no desire toward occupying any rooftop. He really didn't, and just the thought gave him faint chest fullness, the knowledge that it had been a bad idea, that one very terrible day. The call of the wild, the inner yearning, though, simmered and festered within. But oh, he wanted ... His hands, chilled and dry, were crammed into his pockets as he opted to head to yet another empty building, a place to crash, some shelter from the driving, bitter cold. From across the street, there was a whistle, a call, something that summoned his inner demon, and Sherlock made a split second - poor - decision.

"Hey, you interested ...?"

A few sentences exchanged, the delving into his pockets, the transfer of his last remaining money for product, and he nearly broke into a run in an effort to flee the elements, get out of the wind, and indulge himself. He would find somewhere private, where no one would bother him with judging eyes, poking their nose into his business.

He knew within a few minutes of depressing the plunger of the syringe into his antecubital vein that he had apparently made a terrible mistake, that the product was not as had been claimed, that there was a purity issue. A safety issue. He could tell, recognised the difference, and could feel the alarm within. Everything was too fast, brain, body, breathing, thoughts, and he regretted the choice. One substance cut with another, more addictive, more dangerous, cheaper to make. Knowing would have changed everything about how much he should have used, and it was possibly a lethal mistake.

His skin tingled, his heart absolutely racing, pounding, escalating, beating so fast that it felt as if he were going to explode. A cramping spasm in the center of his chest felt especially ominous, restrictive and tight, and he couldn't catch his breath. There was heat followed by dizziness chased by an awareness that he - his lifestyle, his entire life, habits, cravings - had indeed hit absolute rock bottom. Vaguely he recalled Mycroft's words - _contact me when you're serious about help, before it's too late, Sherlock_ \- predicting a bad path to a bad outcome.

Rock bottom, he thought once more, and his chest squeezed, his breathing shallow as the pain gripped him again. He could feel each squeeze of his myocardium, each cramping spasm of hypoxic muscle, could hear and feel the pounding in his ears and around his head. He realised he might actually be there - rock bottom - sinking in the muck and sludge, no further down to go. His hands felt disconnected, his legs still in his vision but seemingly belonging to someone else, his breathing shallow and slowing. The panorama in front of him collapsed around the edges, the tunnel shrinking, becoming narrower as the pain escalated further. Not for the first time, it occurred to him that he might not survive it. Much of him, despite the heart racing sensations, melted into the floor, his body, his hair, his breath, each cell weighted and heavy. It would be very easy to just let go. To simply breathe out, fall asleep, to give in.

To give up.

He breathed out, wondering if this was it.

And with the exhale came the deep down acknowledgement that this might be best for everyone. He was okay with it.

++

His ears came back on line first.

"... saw someone ..."

"... over there ..."

"I call 'is mobile if he's got 'un."

There was a nudge at his side, a stranger's hand reaching gingerly into his pocket.

"... 'urry up, 'e's moving ..."

In his sub-awareness, he roused violently and spoke, rebuked the thieves, shoved them away, refused to be robbed of his mobile and the rest of his drug purchase. Moreso, he gave chase, catching them and knocking their heads together with skillful coordination. In reality, nothing happened. Neither his mouth nor his limbs made any movement whatsoever and a faint lull in the waves of consciousness dulled his awareness again.

The light was coming stronger from a different direction when he managed to open his eyes next, and he blinked clarity into some dingy windows, dirty lino, the same deserted empty room. His shoes had done a runner. The mobile, a burner pre-paid deal he'd managed to acquire, was also missing. And the remainder of whatever else had been in his pockets.

He was still alone.

With an almost thoroughly defeated effort, he hauled himself up, shuffled in his socks toward the door, the street. The pain that had been in his chest was mostly gone, replaced by an old, residual ache that twinged when he took a deep breath and reminded him of the previous evening, the thoughts and possibly the process of dying.

No more.

He still wanted, but exactly what, he wasn't sure.

First things first.

Out on the kerb was a small group of uni students, walking. They were blurry and warbling despite his deliberate blinking.

 _Focus._ "Oi," he muttered, voice hoarse, raspy from disuse. When one of them looked up, he spoke again. "Borrow your mobile?" The people exchanged a wary glance, obviously distrustful, skeptical, looking down their noses at him - seeing a down on his luck, strung out addict. "Please?" he added, albeit reluctantly.

One of the guys shrugged, began to extend his, then there was indistinguishable murmuring, and he frowned. "I'll dial. What number?"

Sherlock gave one, then took the device while the owner hovered. The call connected, and the man stood nearby, listened to the one-sided conversation while guarding his mobile. He spoke a name and was put on hold, briefly, until he heard a familiar, cool voice. Sherlock, low and subdued, said as he tried to mute the desperation, "I find I'm in need of your help." He glanced toward the intersection, read off the street names. There was a pause. "Borrowed it." There was another moment of silence and Sherlock closed his eyes. "I know. You were right." In a small, young-sounding voice, he uttered two more words before disconnecting the call and handing the mobile back.

"I accept."

++

Across town, the government executive issued a few orders that included car, driver, laptop, and the rest of the day off. He sighed, a deep, broken inhale, exhale, feeling very distantly grateful that it seemed there might be a second (eighth, ninth perhaps?) chance. Sherlock'd gone off his radar the last few days, although that wasn't unusual. Most of the time, he never stayed missing too long, so he hadn't begun worrying too much. Yet. He'd completely missed Sherlock's ridiculous stunt on the roof of Barts, finding out about it the following day and Sherlock had already disappeared again.

He hoped he would arrive in time, that Sherlock would wait, that this wasn't a power struggle, a no-show. Sherlock hadn't reached out previously, not in a long time, and the fact that he had today led Mycroft to think, hopefully, that he meant it this time.

They'd been driving a while, Mycroft absorbed in locating available beds in local rehab centres, when he realised the vehicle was stopped and there was a tap from the driver. "We're here." The street was dismal, in a poverty stricken area, and there were more boarded up stores than there were open ones. "Could that be him, sir, perhaps? Right up there?"

Mycroft followed the direction of the driver's gaze, seeing a man leaning against a storefront, shuffling. Initially he dismissed it - too haggard, too thin, far too old to be ... For gods sake the man wasn't even wearing shoes. And then the figure turned and immediately he recognised the profile. _Oh dear lord._ "Yes, that might be ... Thank you, yes, please pull up closer."

The car arrived alongside the kerb, and Mycroft knew a deep-seated fear at the change. Sherlock's eyes in the face of this ... haunted shell of a man.

"Sherlock."

"Took you long enough."

"Do you need medical attention?" Mycroft's question was cool and distant. Like a duck, he could hear one of his mentors explain, very unruffled on the surface, paddling like hell underneath. He'd seen Sherlock in many stages of existence, and he would have simply made the decision had it been apparent. But this time, he wasn't sure.

"I need shoes."

"You apparently need a lot of things." Mycroft recalled the doctors words so long ago, the admonition that success of whatever would be was up to Sherlock. "You look ..." and he stopped before uttering hurtful words like 'terrible' or 'pathetic.' In the moment where Sherlock's eyes reached out to him, he caught a glimpse of his brother seemingly buried inside. Quickly, he was moved with compassion, recalling his brother as a precocious, inquisitive youngster with unruly curls. And it felt _awful_ inside, the waste of talent, the settling for an unmotivated life. He chose instead to reveal some of the sentiment, the caring. He unrolled a layer and let Sherlock _see_. "You look like you've had a very rough day." He took further note of the state of his clothes, the stubble on his jaw, the defeated look in his eyes. "Rough couple of days perhaps."

The kindness of the comment landed harder than a blow to Sherlock, and he blinked away the nearness of actual tears, of emotion. "Understatement."

"You agreed to inpatient rehabilitation."

"I did."

"Is it safe to perhaps spend a few days ... with me, in my home, before going?" An almost youthful uncertainty crept into his words as he thought the offer through after speaking it. He certainly didn't want to give his brother an out now that he'd agreed to - finally - getting professional help. He wriggled his mobile, explaining, "I'm still looking for an acceptable place for you." Waiting only briefly for a snarky comeback, he sighed. "So, shower. Change. Perhaps an actual bed to sleep in." The comment could have been derogatory but was more gentle than that, and it was not lost on either of them that this shift, this dynamic, was huge. That Mycroft was very deliberately and intentionally stepping back and stepping away from previously charged and judgmental situations and instead being ... strictly supportive.

Sherlock blinked. Despite the remaining fogginess of his mind, he did truly get that Mycroft was offering help in a whole new and reasonable way. "I'd like that, yes."

"You promise you'll see it through this time?" _Because I'm not sure you'll survive a next time._

 _I'm not sure either._ For a few moments, stretching into an uncomfortable gap, Sherlock pondered the question. "I promise," he said softly, "that I will try."

"How imminent are your acute withdrawal symptoms?"

Sherlock shrugged.

"Do you need a medical hospital?"

Barely, he shook his head.

Mycroft gave one small, simple nod of his head before looking frontward again. "I believe I have a pair of shoes you might find suitable."

"Okay." The word was quiet and breathy, and Sherlock closed his eyes, leaned his head back against the seat, and hoped for the best.

Toward the front of the car, he spoke again. "Home."

Mycroft and his driver met eyes in the rear-view mirror, in silent mutual respect, and the car slid easily into gear and they were off.

++

"How long do you expect to be here?" 

"I certainly don't want to draw this out unnecessarily. It may take me a few weeks to find a flat I can tolerate." From his vantage point in one of Mycroft's expensive leather chairs, Sherlock knew his words were strong and confident. He was quite cognisant of the changes within and without. Thinking quickly, clearly, and wisely. Motivated for wellness, keeping his brain away from chemicals that could possibly slow him down, and cautiously hopeful for meaning and purpose, eventually. Although it was barely noticeable, he'd put on a few pounds and felt the depth and benefit of proper nutrition. He was not foolish enough - or naive enough - to ignore his susceptibility, to know that he might always battle addition, and need to fend off the craving.

"All right." Mycroft's day had been long but he'd still managed to get home at a somewhat reasonable hour. Hanging up his jacket, he then drew up straight and frowned. "I can tell my housekeeper was here, cleaning. But you managed to smoke in here regardless. You know that smoking indoors is forbidden."

"I wasn't indoors. I was hanging out the window."

"Tosser," Mycroft said, a throwback to when they were younger. "You know better."

"Technically, I was outside."

"Well the smoke managed to follow you back in." He raised a brow, disapproving. "Don't let it happen again. Particularly if you are requesting ... _asylum_ here." With a roll of his eyes, Sherlock made a face but didn't respond. "How is that job coming along?"

"They're idiots. The entire office. And I can't believe that this was the best you could do for me. It's ... insulting. Degrading." For a few moments, Mycroft considered keeping his expression completely neutral and then embraced the opportunity to rile his brother up just a little bit. He let the amusement show in the smirk and the light in his eyes. Sherlock immediately snarled. "As you've intended. You're a ... _disappointment."_

Mycroft's smile softened a little, knowing that indeed this position was far beneath his brother. "It is a connection. A means to what might be something, eventually, you will benefit from. And more, a means to prove yourself capable of analytical investigation." Trading out his shoes for posh leather slippers, Mycroft proceeded to the kitchen, poured himself a seltzer, and heated up the dinner plate that the housekeeper had assembled. "I didn't expect you to be particularly grateful. But one day you will thank me for it."

"Don't hold your breath," Sherlock muttered. "Actually, on second thought," he let the obvious conclusion to the sentence remain unsaid. "I don't know why you thought I would be able to stomach a job like this. Filing? Carrying things, scheduling, keeping order? Being some sort of glorified personal assistant to the buffoons at the Met? It's ... awful." With a sour purse to his mouth, he spoke again. "Next thing, they'll have me answering the phones."

"I have dealt with your supervisor - DI Lestrade isn't it? - a few times. And found him to be quite reasonable. As I recall, his name appeared on at least one of your ... _incidents,_ you know." Sherlock gave what he hoped was a dramatic, excessive eye roll at Mycroft's reminder. "I think, if you let it, the whole experience might be good for you."

His brother made a vomiting sound which earned him a glare from Mycroft, who was preparing to sit down and enjoy his dinner, and he gestured with annoyance at his food and his unappreciation at the bodily noise Sherlock mimicked.

"If you're going to continue to be annoying and make unacceptable noises, please remove yourself while I attempt to enjoy this." Clearly, Sherlock was undecided on what he wanted to do - stay and annoy Mycroft or go find something else to occupy himself. "Though, on a more serious note," Mycroft began as he picked up a fork, "it is strangely good to have you here. And I'm glad you're doing well."

"Ugh, stop," Sherlock protested. "Being nice doesn't suit you."

Choosing a somewhat sinister smile, Mycroft stilled before saying, "I'm very proud of you, Sherlock."

As expected, Sherlock immediately fled the room only to stop at the doorway of the nearest loo. Then, stepping inside, he brought the heels of both hands up toward his mouth, made a few loudly obnoxious raspberry noises into his wrists before leaving the entire first floor to his brother. He hoped the sounds had been especially nauseating and that it ruined his dinner. Heaven knew, the annoying older sibling of his needed to lose a few pounds.

Moments later, Mycroft's smile had not faded one bit, and he found himself quite enjoying the meal, knowing that his brother had done well in rehab, that he was recovering and ... at least somewhat ready to move on with things. He was just beginning his second serving of plum pudding when from drifting down from upstairs, he heard faint, sweet sounds of the violin.

++

Baker Street was especially warm and cozy when it snowed, and this snow had been particularly wonderful. Accumulation had been steady and heavy, keeping the city residents mostly indoors and insulating the quietness all about them outside the building. There was minimal roof noise, only a few pedestrians, a rare vehicle, and the heaviness of snow blanketing everything outside. Inside, the shelter was simple and peaceful. The fireplace snapped and crackled with new logs as John added them, enjoying the noise and the scent and the ambiance. The warm wood trim, the earth toned bookcases, the burgundy carpet, the golden-hued wallpaper glowed even more than usual in the soft reds and yellows cast about from the fireplace.

"That's nice," he complimented himself as he sat back down on the couch next to Sherlock.

"Fire building skills are not necessarily marketable. Don't get too proud of a non-useful skill."

"If the power goes out, we'll just see how non-useful you think it is then." John snorted just a little. "If you don't care for it, you are free to leave." Sherlock made a pouty face. "No, seriously, if you don't like it and don't appreciate it, you can take your negativity and ... go away." Playfully, he gave him a gentle shove to the shoulder. "You could go upstairs, finish unpacking."

A puff of air leaving those bowed lips told John what he thought of that idea. "It's colder upstairs." One of the logs shifted and John poked it into a better position. "Tell me why again you got the bigger, warmer, downstairs bedroom?"

"Because you couldn't stop running your mouth when we met with Mrs. Hudson that first time, and it was my rescuing, my doing that salvaged the deal. She offered it to me ..."

"We could share."

"We really couldn't," John muttered, his cheeks colouring.

"You've shared a bed before. With men even."

"How ...?" Reflexively he began a question - _how did you know?_ \- then reminded himself not to get side-tracked. "Flatmates. We discussed being flatmates. Not bedmates."

"Your loss."

"Sherlock."

"What, it's not like you have a girlfriend, do you?"

"I don't."

"Boyfriend?"

With a soft sigh, John looked unwaveringly back at Sherlock, seeing the question, the dare, and feeling - not for the first time - the attraction between them, just barely there but beginning to grow. He opted for a more adventuresome answer, hoping the bravado that had carried him in the past would be fortifying. "No," but he let his tone vacillate as if there was more information coming. "Not yet." Before turning back to tend once more to the fire - albeit unnecessarily - he made sure Sherlock's attention was wholly on him, and tilted his head just slightly. And winked.

When he was done with the fire, Sherlock had tucked his body into the corner of the couch, John's union jack pillow under his head, and he was just watching, studying, and silently observing. Returning to his end of the couch, he could still feel the sensation of being watched. Finding something to occupy his hands and his mind, he picked up a random book, but apparently he let a small smirk show, knowing he was amused, flattered, and surprisingly more than a little interested.

He cut a quick glance to Sherlock who waited until John was staring intently, then turned his head again toward the fire, wearing a smirk very similar.

The game was definitely on. Heaven help the pair of them.

++

"Brought a friend home today."

John was drying one of the dinner dishes, holding both it and the towel as he watched Sherlock pull an item from the bag and set it on the mantel, right next to his own violin-serenading frog. Although it had been a rather whimsical piece, he recalled that it had meant a lot to him, seeing it in his previous bedsit, the challenge from his therapist to find something pleasing and decorative that he enjoyed. It had been joined by ... _was that?_ "Sherlock, what is ...?"

"Well, when I say friend." Chuckling, he positioned a quite realistic appearing human skull at a jaunty angle. "I think it looks ..."

"Dark. Macabre." John was ready to continue, except that he saw Sherlock's grin, his pleasure, his appreciation, and the satisfaction that particular item brought him. "All right, then." Something occurred to him. "It's not nicked from the evidence room at the Met, is it?"

"No."

"Stolen?"

"Not exactly."

"Sherlock." A brow raised, John had hung up the towel and come out to stand near the mantel.

"It's not evidence." Both of them could hear the defensiveness, the excuse in the words. "Well, not active evidence."

"If it's borrowed without permission, you're going to need to return it."

"It was in an unused box of paraphernalia at Barts, if you must know. Things for the rubbish. I spent the afternoon with one of the pathologists there, and happened upon it on my way out."

"Dumpster diving, were you?"

John could see the set of Sherlock's jaw change, his teeth clenching as he chose not to answer the question. "I think it looks nice by your little frog, there. However, I've been meaning to talk to you about that frog. Although his bowing position is terrible, the instrument isn't even close to where it could be played, and the entire angle of the ..." He realised something, stopped mid-sentence. "What?"

John had been trying to hold in his laughter and failed miserably. "You do realise, you madman, that this is a caricature of a frog, and by definition, all of it is impossible. Not meant to be realistic at all."

"I'm just pointing out my observations, that it's ridiculous. And an insult to all of us who actually own and play a stringed instrument."

"I think the skull and the frog will be good company for each other."

"You are also a ridiculous man."

"Yeah?" John smiled, and with a brave heart and a daring move, he placed a warm hand behind Sherlock's arm as they stood there close together. Cool blue eyes snapped to his dark ones, meeting and wondering and curious. Both smiles faded into something more serious, more certain, interested. These moments had been happening more frequently, though other than a few lingering touches, nothing else had transpired yet. "I think I'm okay with that."

"Okay with just that? Or ... exactly what are we talking about now?" Sherlock's voice had dropped into a somewhat puzzled register, his typical confidence and attitude on a back burner.

"We can talk about whatever you'd like. Or we can ..." He gave Sherlock ample time to back away and waited a moment, searching for permission, for returned interest, for the chemistry that he knew they both felt. Pressing up on his toes, he leaned in toward Sherlock, reaching a hand up to that graceful neck to ease them closer before their lips touched. As first kisses, it was dry and soft, tender and hesitant. "Is this all right?"

"God yes."

Under blond fringe, the dark eyes shone and sparkled as John echoed the yes before leaning in once more. Insistent lips, joined by fingertips on a stubbled jaw, pressing closer, the faint press of tongue over the cupid's bow. Their breath intermingled, warm and curling about them, as long arms reached around, drawing them even closer.

++

They'd been living together for months, and together in other ways for a while too. Things were settling, John into his role at the clinic, now full time and thriving. Sherlock had managed to survive and not alienate his supervisor at the Met, and DI Lestrade had finally allowed him to expand into more of a consulting investigator. To be fair, Sherlock had been quite up front about what his goals were and it seemed, eventually, he might actually get there.

John suspected that Sherlock's brother Mycroft might have had something to do with their patience and tolerance.

It was just beginning to be the time of year when evenings cooled down quite a bit when Sherlock's mobile buzzed with an incoming text tone.

"My brother has announced that he's dropping by this evening." 

"All right." John pondered the warning. "Should I --?

"No. You mustn't leave me alone with him."

"Maybe he needs to talk with you privately."

"Perish the thought."

"Well, if need be, I can certainly step out."

Broodily, Sherlock simply looked back at John, unhappy, stubborn, and glaring in response.

Later, when Mycroft's footsteps were on their way up the stairs, Sherlock grew more sullen.

"You know," John suggested, "he did actually help you quite a bit. Maybe it's a good thing."

"Doubtful. Clearly, you have been brainwashed, exactly as he intended."

There was a quick rap of the knuckles, and when Sherlock didn't move, John answered the door to admit one Mycroft Holmes, carrying an oversized bag, with handles.

The brothers met eyes, Sherlock considering Mycroft's posture, his face, and then the bundle.

"Go ahead," Mycroft said quietly. "Figure it out."

"I am not interested."

Mycroft pasted on a sinister smile, an all-knowing and mildly arrogant one. "Yes you are."

"It doesn't matter at all what's in there. It's just another way of you feeling superior, of finding something to lord over me, keep me indebted to you."

"I'll play," John said, sick of their banter and their cleverness and their suspicion and most of all, their baseline annoyance with each other. He'd quickly surmised the way through their stubbornness was often to usher things forward.

Two sets of Holmes eyes turned to him.

He shrugged, knowing he would be making up something ridiculous and on the receiving end of their scorn, but he was willing to sacrifice himself at least a little in the interest of them getting along. "It's obvious. A puppy." He picked up the newspaper he'd been reading and pointedly did not look at the looks of disdain at his pitiful attempt.

The sigh Mycroft huffed out was sadly disappointed. "I bought you something. Quite a while ago actually. I know you don't want to hear it, but I know you're working hard. Paying your dues, so to speak."

"Please don't draw this out unnecessarily."

"I went to find you, last winter. Found some miscreant in that abandoned building over on ..." and he gestured with regal fingers, dismissing the detail "... and also your coat. It was in horrible shape, that long gray one. Tattered seams, ripped. Shambles, truthfully." He clearly had more to say, and John wondered about where Sherlock had indeed lived some of that time. "I had intended to have it repaired but it was not salvageable." There was a bit of a glimmer of interest as Sherlock did hear the genuine kindness in his brothers words. "I trust you will find this to your liking, Sherlock."

When Sherlock didn't move toward the bag, John cleared his throat but Sherlock stubbornly remained still.

Prepared to retreat, Mycroft tilted his head, ready to cut his losses, to surrender. "John," he said in farewell, and turned to leave.

 _"Sherlock,"_ John murmured, then again with more force, prompting him.

"Fine," he seethed in a quiet whisper, rising to procure the bag as Mycroft waited in the doorway. From within it, he lifted out a large folded bundle of wool, and held one end while the rest unfurled. He turned the item as it was revealed, a long, well-made wool coat, buttons and accented buttonholes with a flared line to it. Sherlock managed to breath an unmistakable compliment. "Oh."

John inhaled, too, an agreement, appreciative. "That's ... wow. Very nice."

Mycroft only had eyes for his brother, and for a few long moments, they looked at each other, communicating silently. "You remember?"

"Of course I do." Sherlock's words were low and quiet, and as he finished them, he shrugged his long arms into the coat, tucking it neatly around him, adjusting the lapels and the placket and the buttons. The brothers met eyes again for a few moments, Mycroft's smile actually warmer and Sherlock's softly benign. Slowly, he searched the pockets, and withdrew an item, holding it loosely in his hand. "His?"

"Of course."

Time stretched out, with Sherlock repocketing the item, and eventually removing the coat, hanging it carefully on the sleek wooden hanger that had been included at the bottom of the bag.

"Thank you." John had never heard quite the level of sincerity. "I ..."

"You're welcome." Without delay, he turned to actually leave, biding John farewell once more, just speaking his name again.

Time passed a while, both of them silent, the light and angle and shadows coming in changing as the day dwindled. John made tea, delivered both cups to the living room.

"Go ahead," Sherlock said quietly, the attitude a little more somber since his brother had left. At John's frown, he added, "I'm sure you want to ask."

With a gentle tone, a kind expression, John shrugged. "Not necessary. Only if you want to."

The smile Sherlock adopted was a young one, a smile of a very happy childhood memory apparently, but his description was brief. "Had a favourite uncle, kind of a crazy, unpredictable throwback to ... I don't know who in the genetic line. But he was frowned on by basically everyone. So of course, I absolutely adored him. He was ... just a wonderful addition to any family gathering, found fun in any activity. He wore a long coat and made a big deal out of ... inspecting things with a magnifying glass. Which is now in the pocket." He could have spoken about the study of a roasted turkey one Christmas dinner, shared about the leaves on one of the trees outside, about inspecting the face of a rather large hairy spider. "He's been gone for years now, and I hadn't thought too much of it, the coat. Certainly not the glass, just figured it had been lost forever."

John waited, wondering if Sherlock had more to share on the subject. When he did not, John chuckled softly. "Nice gift. Though it might be considered a little sentimental."

"Shhh, don't ruin the moment. You would have liked my Uncle Rudy."

"I'm fairly certain I would have." A little later after a comfortable span of silence, he nodded at the kitchen. "Dinner?"

"Sure."

"And maybe a dash out to ... I don't know, the park or something later?"

"Why?"

"Some fresh air." _Because it's easier to talk that way._

The evening found them just companionable, sharing a meal, taking a walk after, and it was along the way back to the flat when inspiration struck John. An item, an errand, a surprise.

++

Sherlock eyed the bag in John's hand, extended in his direction, as if was going to bite him.

"It's just something little." Tamping down on his mild embarrassment, the awkwardness, John downplayed it best he could. "I thought it would ..."

Upending the bag, contents dripping out, Sherlock stared at the pile of woven blue in front of him, the small envelope stuck at an odd angle. He picked up the envelope first. Inside John had placed two tickets to a LSO matinee featuring one of their string ensembles, that John added on a whim. The other item was the impetus for it, his main idea.

"What is this?" he said, lifting it with his elegant fingers until he very quickly figured it out. 

"I thought it needed it. The coat."

"You got me a scarf. I thought you liked my neck." His eyebrows waggled as he lifted his chin, both of them recalling the prior times when John nearly worshipped the area. There was a sweet half-smirk on his face until he really dug his fingers into it and realised. "God it's so soft."

"It's cashmere-lambswool blend." The colour was somewhere between midnight and blue heather, and it was particularly complimentary, John thought, to Sherlock's eyes just as much as the coat. "It's okay if you don't want --"

"Shh." He almost seemed surprised as he commented, "I really like it." And then he froze, raised a brow, and his grin grew mischievous. "It's not just to cover up love marks, is it?"

"No. I mean," John smiled, having actually thought he would like to leave a mark someday, somewhere hidden. "I guess it can be if you want."

Sherlock considered John's proximity, his bearing, his kindness. "Maybe," he said noncommittedly, then belied the statement as he through the scarf around John's neck and dragged him close.

They were still chuckling when their legs got tangled in the scarf in efforts to make it to the bedroom in time.

++

London after dark took on a new attitude, different lighting, a wider variety of people and ages, less eye contact, and activities of city nightlife. They traveled a few blocks in quietness, the scene behind them growing farther away in both actual distance and their memories, before John's steps slowed. "That was ... not pleasant."

"No."

Sherlock had been called to a crime scene to help sort out the details, the note, the confusion, and the strange evidence left behind. Although the specifics were yet to be fully known, there had been substances, a suicide pact, a history of depression, and isolation. The couple had left a cryptic note and it would be up to DI Lestrade to follow up on. But the despair, the high-risk behaviour, that had been apparent.

"I remember being in a bad place, too." Sherlock had slowed down, too, and was watching and waiting for John to continue. "It was just ... dark, for a time."

"I know." And his unspoken agreement, his identifying with it on his own experiences. "I remember."

Momentarily, John considered their paths - Sherlock with his substances and brushes with overdosing, his with vocation changes and unexpected depression - and that things were just so much better. They were healthy, they were improving, and there was hope for bright tomorrows.

John's mobile chirped.

**I stopped up to bring you dessert, was going to leave it, changed my mind. You tell that unruly beast you live with that the refrigerator needs to be cleaned out immediately. I certainly hope that they are not actual human toes.**

"You said you were going to take care of that."

Sherlock's stride lengthened, and he reached up to tuck the scarf in a little deeper then flip up the collar of his Belstaff as he walked. "I did."

"Not according to Mrs. H."

"Well," he began, his sidewise smile broad, "she's actually lucky she didn't find the testicles then, isn't she?"

John couldn't help it - the giggling just started slowly, low key, but by the time Sherlock joined in, it was wholehearted.

++

Across town, Mycroft finished an email, pressed send, sipped at his Earl Grey, checked the time - late, again - and then happened to glance over at the video monitor. What he saw was, frankly, a relief. He didn't think his brother and the resilient, very tolerant flatmate he lived with, could be up to much trouble if they were laughing so hard they could barely walk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for reading, I hope it was at least entertaining. I can't resist poking at the dialogue of the original and kind of enjoyed turning that around a little with change in tone, speaker, and intent.
> 
> Be safe, all. Be wise if you choose to gather. We are in this for the long haul, and even separated as we are, we are not alone.
> 
> ++
> 
> I think I'm hanging up my writing shingle for a while. An interlude is much needed. (Oh oops, I have one more nearly finished chapter on an existing series.) It's been a great run, a needed escape, and therapeutic. But I'm ready to circle the wagons, lick my wounds for a while, and enjoy reading all the fanfic I have "Marked for Later."
> 
> I'm exhausted. Covid has sucked too much energy already. I am clinging hard to that little flicker of hope I have been hanging on to.
> 
> Be well my friends.


End file.
